


Who Ruined Saturday Morning Funtime?

by hapax (hapaxnym)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Who Censored Roger Rabbit? - Gary K. Wolf, Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988)
Genre: AU: Good Omens/Roger Rabbit Fusion, AU: Humans and Toons, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Because I Can't Just Give Y'All NIce Things, CWP: Crack With Pretensions, Canon(s)-Typical Alcohol Consumption, Canon(s)-Typical Violence, Cartoon Physics, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), God Ships It, Hail Hail The Gang’s All Here, Humour (Attempts At), Idiots in Love, Illustrations (Attempts At), Multi, Murder Mystery, No Beta We Dissolve Like Toons, No Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV: Anathema Device (mostly), Period-Typical Sexism, Pining, Private Detective Anathema Device, Pseudo-noir, Strong Language, The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens), Thinly-Veiled Metaphors for Bigotry and Oppression, Toon!Aziraphale, Toon!Crowley, cartoon violence, implied racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25834597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax
Summary: Crowley crossed his arms in disgust.  “For the love of all that’s unholy, angel, how many times do we have to shoot this scene?  Did you lose the bloody sword or something?”“Lose it?  Don’t be ridiculous.”  Aziraphale’s smile looked more like a rictus.  “I, er, must have just put it down somewhere.”  He laughed painfully.  “I’ll be forgetting my own head, next.”In 1947, the toon team of Aziraphale Angel and Crawly Demon are bitter enemies on the screen, and solid gold at the box office--until Aziraphale starts to lose his focus.Anathema Device is a down-at-heels private detective, ready to do almost anything to pay the bills--except take on a toon as a client.Then the millionaire owner of Toontown is murdered, and Aziraphale is the only suspect--and everyone is going to have to change.The Good Omens/Roger Rabbit fusion that I didn't know I needed until it happened.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Hastur & Ligur (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 115
Kudos: 101
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner, Just Enough Of A Bastard to be Worth Knowing Biblically





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> CW: This is a murder mystery, so characters are going to die violently. I will try to avoid any graphic depictions.  
> Mostly based on the 2019 Good Omens television series and the 1988 Who Framed Roger Rabbit? film; however, plot and character elements are borrowed from the original book versions of both.  
> Chapter titles are from the Looney Tunes theme song, "This Is It!"

Gabriel Hornblower presents

a

**Hornblowin’ Hullabaloo**

in TECHNICOLOR ™

starring

AZIRAPHALE ANGEL & CRAWLY DEMON

in

“ ** _BOOKSHOP BEDLAM_** _”_

Directed by B. L. Z. Bubb

copyright MCMXLVII.

_Exterior: BOOKSHOP. Sign reads A Z Fell & Co, Antiquarian and Unusual Books_

_Interior: BOOKSHOP . There are teetering towers of books everywhere: on shelves, on tables, piled on the floor. Amidst this labyrinth of literature, we see a sweet-faced blue-eyed white-haired chubby angel, wearing a three-piece cream-coloured suit, pale blue shirt, and tartan bowtie. It is AZIRAPHALE ANGEL. His bright white halo gleams and his poofy wings flutter as he wanders the aisles of the shop, humming absently as he dusts the books with a feather duster._

_Several feathers get stuck between two large volumes; as he tries to free them, they are pulled out of the duster. The books are dislodged and the pile begins to collapse._

_AZIRAPHALE: “Oh, no, my dears, we can’t have that, I am expecting the Archangels to visit my shop at any moment!”_

_He snaps his fingers and the pile rights itself. AZIRAPHALE yanks a few feathers from his wing and replaces them in the duster._

_Exterior: BOOKSHOP. There is a sign in the front window. It reads CLOSED FOR INSPECTION._

_The camera pulls back to reveal a tall thin dark figure. It is CRAWLY DEMON. He is all bends and angles, and wears a sharp suit and snap-brim fedora in unrelieved black; the only spot of color is his blazing red hair, cut short to show two small scarlet curving horns at his temples. He pulls down his dark glasses to reveal bright golden serpentine eyes with slit pupils, as he reads the sign out loud._

_CRAWLY: “Closed for inspection, eh? Heh. Time to get in there and … [hisssss] … make ssssome trouble.”_

_CRAWLY snaps his fingers and transforms into a man-sized snake, black with red belly scales and golden eyes, still wearing hat and sunglasses._

_Interior: BOOKSHOP: In the kitchenette, AZIRAPHALE is putting a kettle on the hob. He opens a tin of shortbread and arranges them on a china platter._

_AZIRAPHALE: “Tea and biscuits. Perfect.”_

_He hears a loud clatter in the shop and goes to investigate._

_PAN to bookshelves, where CRAWLY is undulating among the shelves, nudging volumes to the floor._

_AZIRAPHALE: “Stop that, you foul fiend!”_

_AZIRAPHALE picks up feather duster and begins to chase CRAWLY through the shop. Volumes crash and fall in avalanches, some knocked to the floor by CRAWLY, some toppled by AZIRAPHALE’s improvised weapon; every time the bookslide miraculously misses the angel or the demon or both._

_CRAWLY becomes trapped between the wall and an enormous glass-fronted case, with an old-fashioned key protruding from the lock._

_AZIRAPHALE: “Hah! Got you, demon!”_

_AZIRAPHALE makes a dive for the serpent, but his halo gets caught on the knob of the key, and he jerks short. CRAWLY slithers to a swift escape._

_AZIRAPHALE tugs his halo free, but knocks over the case, spilling its contents._

_AZIRAPHALE: “Oh no! My first editions!”_

_CRAWLY zips into the kitchenette, and flips the tray with shortbread, which are flung all over the room. We see them arcing through the air majestically in slow motion._

_AZIRAPHALE: “Not the nibbles!”_

_Everything—including CRAWLY, biscuits, falling books—freezes. Except for AZIRAPHALE, who plucks the shortbread from the air, and rearranges them artistically upon the plate (except for one last biscuit, which he bites into with a rapturous expression.) Close-up on CRAWLY, who is watching intently._

_AZIRAPHALE: “Mmmm. Scrummy.”_

_Time restarts and the chaotic chase resumes._

_CRAWLY scrambles over the hob, flicking the gas to its highest level. AZIRAPHALE flies after him, dragging the lacy window curtains in his wake. Unnoticed by either, a flame licks across the hem of a curtain._

_CRAWLY retreats back to the shelves. AZIRAPHALE grabs wildly, and seizes him by the neck (which, since he’s a snake, is pretty much all of him). With all his strength, AZIRAPHALE smacks at CRAWLY with his feather duster._

_CRAWLY winces. As the blow lands, he sneezes. Then he cautiously opens one eye._

_AZIRAPHALE: “Yield, demon, or I shall be forced to smite you again!”_

_CRAWLY: “That’s it? Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got?”_

_AZIRAPHALE whacks him over the head again. CRAWLY smirks._

_CRAWLY: “Don’t you have a flaming sword or something?”_

_AZIRAPHALE [horrified]: “This is a bookshop! Fire is the last thing I want in—”_

_On cue, a sheet of flame roars in from the kitchenette. AZIRAPHALE stares as the shelves catch fire like, well, books in a furnace._

_AZIRAPHALE: “Oh, no! There will be so much paperwork!”_

_The angel scrambles out of front door, still clutching CRAWLY in his fist. Both watch in shock as in a matter of moments the bookshop turns incandescent red, then black, then crumbles to ash._

_Slowly, the demon and the angel turn to stare at each other._

_The snake suddenly transforms back into man-shape. AZIRAPHALE is still clutching him by the collar, hoisted in midair._

_CRAWLY: “Hallo angel, look, it’s me, your old pal Crawly! How long have we been friends, anyhow?”_

_The sign reading CLOSED FOR INSPECTION, blown by a gust of wind, is plastered over CRAWLY’s face._

_AZIRAPHALE: “Friends? We’re not friends. I don’t even like you.”_

_The angel drops his feather duster and reaches towards his hip._

_The demon peels the paper off his face, and grins charmingly._

_CRAWLY: “You_ do _! And you’d never smite a friend, right?”_

_Silence._

_AZIRAPHALE stands immobile, with a blank expression._

_CRAWLY: “I said, you’d never smite a friend, right?”_

_AZIRAPHALE: “… of course not, my dear. Lunch, then?”_

<+>X<+>

“Cut! Cut, cut, cut, cut, CUT!” A diminutive bundle of buzzing fury leapt between the angel and the demon, arms slashing wildly.

Crowley shoved Aziraphale’s hand roughly away from his collar. “What the Heav- the _fuck_ was wrong with that take?”

The director bounded over to the demon’s side. “Nothing with you, Crawly. You were great, you were perfect, you were _better_ than perfect. It’z the angel. He keepz on blowing hiz linez!” They shoved a wad of papers into the angel’s downcast face. “Read the zcript, Aziraphale. What doez it zay?” 

Aziraphale accepted the script, smoothing it in his hands, and pulling a pair of gold-framed glasses from his coat’s inner breast pocket. He perused the sheets slowly, lips pursed. “I believe it reads: _Angel pulls out flaming sword. Angel smites Demon. Angel answers ‘Obviously._ ’”

“Obviouzly! Aziraphale, it’z your blezzed _catchphraze_. Not _LUNCH_!” Bubb gave an incoherent screech, gripping their hair in rage.

“I just thought…” The angel twisted his fingers in distress. “I just thought, now that the war is over, and all that, perhaps we should, I don’t know, model more peaceful methods of conflict resolution?”

Crowley crossed his arms in disgust. “For the love of all that’s unholy, angel, how many times do we have to shoot this scene? Did you _lose_ the bloody sword or something?”

“Lose it? Don’t be ridiculous.” Aziraphale’s smile looked more like a rictus. “I, er, must have just put it down somewhere.” He laughed painfully. “I’ll be forgetting my own head, next.”

“Beelz, I’ll be in my trailer. Let me know when the angel wants to act like a professional.” The demon rolled his eyes as he sauntered away from the set. He ruffled the hair of a blushing camera grip as he passed. “Join me, Hellspawn?”

The director hurled the script papers into the air with a dramatic flourish. “I cannot deal with thizz, I am an ARTIZZZT. Everybody, take a break. Thirty minutez. _You_ ,” they pointed an accusing finger at Aziraphale, “will be hearing from Mr. Hornblower zoon enough.”

The pale-haired toon stood alone on the abandoned set, amid the smoke machines, flicker drums, and flame forks used to simulate a catastrophic fire, piles of mocked-up books scattered everywhere. “Oh, dear. That didn’t go at all well. That went over like a ... well, like a lead balloon.”


	2. Curtain! Lights!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You’ve heard of Aziraphale Angel, right? Seen any of his movies?”_
> 
> _“I don’t think so,” she answered, dismayed. “He’s the one who always smites that demon, right? At any rate, I should tell you that I don’t work for toons.”_
> 
> _Anathema perched on the edge of a very uncomfortable office chair as Hornblower explained what he was hiring her to do._
> 
> o hai Anathema  
> o hai actual plot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: implied racism and sexism

Anathema Device straightened her shoulders and adjusted her tortoise-shell eyeglasses before pressing on the buzzer next to the front door of Hornblower Studios. _A job is a job_ , she reminded herself. A sad smile drifted across her lips as she realized how much that sounded like one of Great-Aunt Agnes’s favourite aphorisms: _The work is the work_. But it would be all right. After all, the studio wasn’t _technically_ in Toontown.

A short, balding, bull-necked thug answered the door. “You the private dick?”

“Anathema Device. From the Nutter Investigative Agency.” Only employee, these days, but this goon didn’t need to know that.

“The boss is waiting for you. I’ll take you to his office.”

Gabriel Hornblower was tall, exquisitely dressed, and almost unnaturally handsome. Anathema squinted as she returned his handshake, his firm grip feeling like a challenge. The producer’s aura was strange: lilac-mauve, a color she’d never seen before, and flat and slick like sheet of plastic film. She didn’t know what that meant; but it didn’t feel dangerous, at any rate.

“Miss Device, is it? You’re not … what I was expecting.” His purple eyes assessed her slim figure, her youthful face, her brown skin. _Who’s the real dick here?_ she thought, irked.

“Agnes Nutter trained me herself,” she said instead. “Why don’t you tell me what you need done? Then we can decide together whether I’m competent to do it.”

He smiled at her then, a quick triangular grin that looked like he had copied it from a movie poster. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m sure you’ll do great.”

Anathema gritted her teeth and thought of the utility bills.

“Anywho, I’m not asking all that much. You’ve heard of Aziraphale Angel, right? Seen any of his movies?”

“I don’t think so,” she answered, dismayed. “He’s the one who always smites that demon, right? At any rate, I should tell you that I don’t work for toons.”

Hornblower flashed her that practiced grin again. “Don’t blame you, toots. They’re unreasonable, unreliable, unpredictable, and never just do what they’re told. But you won’t be working for him, you’ll be working for _me_ ; and I assure you, I am the exact opposite of a toon. But as for the other… that’s the problem. Have a seat.”

Anathema perched on the edge of a very uncomfortable office chair as Hornblower explained what he was hiring her to do.

<+>X<+>

Aziraphale fidgeted nervously as he entered Gabriel’s office. He wasn’t wearing his halo—that was just a stage costume, and he personally found it distastefully ostentatious—but he tugged at his waistcoat, straightened his bowtie, and otherwise made sure he was as impeccable as possible.

Gabriel was going to be disappointed in him, he was sure. Again. But the angelic toon wasn’t going to crumple in the face of his disapproval. No, he was quite determined to stick to his convictions. _This_ time was going to be different. His resolution was absolutely firm on this.

It didn’t help that the décor in the producer’s office always made him feel slightly tatty and unkempt. The stark white walls, enormous windows, and completely uncompromising Art Deco furniture were in complete opposition to his own cosy old-fashioned tastes. 

Also, it was very hard not to feel intimidated by the way Sandy (Gabriel’s assistant/bodyguard/enforcer) propped himself against the wall and sneered at him, letting a glint of gold teeth shine through.

“Aziraphale! Good to see you, sunshine. Time is money, so let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” Gabriel clapped his hands together just once. “Beelz is very unhappy with you right now. And their latest short is _way_ over budget. Want to tell me what we need to make this happen?”

“Well. Yes.” Aziraphale went to tug at his waistcoat again, but at the last moment clasped his hands behind his back. “I was thinking. About the end of the film. About the end of _all_ the films, really.”

Gabriel cocked his head and made a “go on” gesture.

“I mean. That is... Must everything always conclude with violence?”

“Aziraphale, I’m not following. That’s your whole _schtick_ , isn’t it? You and Crowley. You fight; and you _win_. It’s written in the script.” Gabriel spread his hands wide. “Just follow that, and everything will be fine.”

“But _surely_ …”

Gabriel wagged a finger. “We go way back, don’t we, sunshine? To the beginning of this studio. Remember? And I’ve always been on your side. I’m the one who first teamed you up with the snake, after all. “ _Apple Tree Duty_ ”, that was a classic. Brilliant.” He turned to the walls, looking up at a gallery of movie posters. “Angel and Demon. One of the great rivalries. Right up there with Tom and Jerry, Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd, Tweety and Sylvester. But now you want to throw all that away.” He shook his head sadly.

“No! Not … I have no objection to working with Crowley, er, _Crawly_. He’s a fine actor, really keeps me on my toes, I can tell you, but… I just think that the scripts have become rather … formulaic. Simplistic. Perhaps we could add a little, I don’t know, _nuance_?”

“Aziraphale, your commitment to your craft is praiseworthy. But you can’t allow that to make you … _soft_.” Gabriel made the adjective sound vaguely obscene. “You’ve got to remember your audience here. American filmgoers are modern, vigorous, tough. They don’t want _nuance_ ; they want a hero and a villain and a good, down-and-dirty tussle between them. They want a _winner_ —and that winner should be _you_.”

“You can’t have a _victory_ without a _battle_ ,” Sandy intoned sententiously.

Gabriel looked at him, much struck. “ _You can’t have a victory without a battle_! That’s very clever, Sandy, I shall have to remember that. And really, sunshine, you read all that”—the producer waved an airy hand—“ _literary_ stuff, you should know it’s all about the fights. Romeo vs Juliet. Pride vs. Prejudice. The Selfish Giant vs. The Happy Prince. The classics.”

Aziraphale thought that he very well might have to sit down. “But … but … that’s not at all what …”

“Honestly, Aziraphale, I’d love to spend all evening chatting about art and literature with you, but…” Gabriel looked at his ostentatious wristwatch. “Alas, I’m a businessman. Got a studio to run, box office to protect. Here’s the deal.” He looked at the pale-haired toon, and suddenly he didn’t seem affable at all. “Show up tomorrow morning, _with_ the damn sword and ready to use it, or you’re out of here. I’ll find Crawly a new partner.”

“NO! You can’t! I …” Now the angel did find himself collapsing into one of the spindly metal chairs.

The producer’s smile flickered like a knife. “Maybe that woodpecker—nah, can’t have two redheads, besides that laugh is just _annoying_ —or that huge Southern rooster, or …” He glanced at Sandy. “Maybe I’ll just start over and go to the Top.”

Everybody in the room knew exactly what he meant, but Sandy was too loyal to miss his cue. “The Top, boss?”

“Yes, Sandy. The Top. The Highest.” Gabriel cut his eyes over to Aziraphale. “Frances Acme. I’ll bet she’s got some new up-and-coming toon who will think they’ve just died and gone to Heaven.”

“Wait. Gabriel. Please.” Aziraphale struggled back to his feet. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure … If I can just talk to the right people … All this can be avoided …” He was stammering, he knew. Worse, he was _capitulating_. Again. “Everyone can be _happy_ …” Humiliated, he stared at his feet.

“Excellent, then. Good talk.” The studio head clapped his hands again. “I’ll expect you on the set bright and early, a lean, mean, acting machine. Sandy, see our angel out, will you?”

Gabriel watched Aziraphale walk away, a painted drawing of misery. He propped one hip against the edge of his desk. He waited a few minutes, then said, “Did you get all that?”

“Yep.” Anathema popped the _p_ , as she emerged from behind one of the floor length white curtains. She wasn’t really all that expert at lurking unseen, but the toon hadn’t exactly been looking for her, either. “That was … rather brutal.”

“Eh. Y’know, _toons_.” Hornblower sounded dismissive. “Flighty things. That one in particular. Sometimes you’ve got to be firm.” He pulled out a desk drawer, reached in, and pulled out a surprisingly expensive-looking camera. “Take this and follow him. I don’t _want_ him to … do anything stupid, mind you, but if he _does_ … well, it’s your job to make sure we’ve got him under control. You understand me?”

Anathema did. Her lip curled in distaste, but _the work is the work_. 

Hornblower grinned. “Thank you so much for my photography.”

Anathema stared at him. He was so _weird_. She felt briefly sorry for the poor sap she was helping to set up, but it’s not like she had any real sympathy for toons either. She took the camera and left.

<+>X<+>

“Drat,” Anathema groused out loud, but without any real bite. She hadn’t _known_ where the toon angel was headed, not really, when she hopped onto her bicycle and started to follow him; but she couldn’t pretend even to herself that she was surprised that he marched straight south towards the sleek modern building that loomed over the eastern gate into Toontown. The elegant Roman capitals on the façade proclaimed it to be the headquarters of ACME CORPORATION, with the slogan _If It’s ACME, It’s Ineffable!_ engraved beneath; but to everyone in the city, the place was simply known as Eden, and the principal residence of the company’s founder and sole stockholder, the millionaire Frances Acme.

The toon marched with spine ramrod straight and more quickly than Anathema had expected, assisted by a little flutter of his wings with every step. She was hard pressed to keep up without drawing attention to herself—especially when he suddenly stopped, muttered “Oh no, not _again_ ” and detoured towards the back of the warehouse. The investigator followed, even though (according to her childhood memories of visiting with Great-Aunt Agnes) there was no way to get through the high walls which surrounded the celebrated attached gardens without going inside the building.

Well, apparently one still couldn’t get through the walls. But it was now possible to get _over_. 

Or so one could judge by dark sinuous figure slithering over the stone parapet, barely visible in the light spilling out into the street from the top two floors. Anathema pulled out the camera and quickly snapped a few pictures before the whatever-it-was disappeared. She thought she heard Aziraphale sigh “ _ridiculous creature_ ” before she had to duck back into a nearby shadow as he returned to the front of the building. 

However, his greeting to the doorman—“ _Hullo, Peter, is it possible speak to Her Highness?_ ”—was clearly audible before he entered. 

Nobody was entirely certain what the exact relationship was between Acme and the toons. Some people thought that she had invented them many decades ago, somehow created them and gave them life. Others insisted that there had always been toons, maybe under different names and guises, and that Acme had merely “discovered” them and made their existence widely known. It was a matter of legal record that she owned Toontown, where the vast majority of publicly acknowledged toons resided; and a fact of financial import that she ran the corporation that manufactured most of the items that made the wildly popular toon entertainment industry possible. It was generally acknowledged that she was the toons’ most prominent protector and benefactor, and that they in turn treated her with the greatest respect and reverence. “Highness” (itself a toon-typical pun on the businesswoman’s surname) was the title most commonly used; but Anathema had herself observed that, in private, most toons simply called Acme “Mother”.

(Anathema used to find this custom charming. Now she thought that it was a little creepy.)

At any rate, there wasn’t much likelihood of anyone letting the detective into the building with her camera, in order to continue her surveillance. She supposed that she could just hang around outside until Aziraphale re-emerged; that would probably be good enough for Hornblower.

The back of her neck itched. She wouldn’t have gone into this business if she hadn’t been pathologically nosy. 

Anathema sidled around to the far side of the building and eyed the first landing of the outside fire escape. Tucking the camera into her capacious shoulder-bag, she dusted her hands on the concrete sidewalk, then jumped for the first railing and caught it easily. She clambered up the stairs towards the top level as quietly as she could. Plastering her back against the stucco facade, she peered through the nearest window into the penthouse suite. From this angle she could barely see the edge of an elegant gold chaise-longue, an endtable stacked high with papers and books, and the shadow of the toon angel against the creamy patterned wallpaper. She thought she heard two voices raised in an argument, but couldn’t quite make out the words.

She brought out the camera and took a few more pictures, although they didn’t show much of anything. She rummaged through the bag one-handed to see if she had brought a glass, or anything else she could press against the window in order to make eavesdropping more profitable. 

She felt a firm tap against the back of her neck and muffled a shriek, nearly dropping the camera. Hornblower would have had a fit; it was probably worth more than he was paying her for this job.

She turned around and found herself face to face with an ice blue dragon.

The enormous toon was perched on the roof of the building, stretching its neck down to stare at the investigator with its luminous eyes. Anathema braced herself for… she didn’t know what, a gout of flame, a swipe from glittering gold claws, a snap of pearlescent fangs, _something_. After several moments of mutual staring, but nothing else, she permitted herself to relax.

“Hey, Michael,” she offered up with as much calm as she could dig up. “What’s new?”

“What is _not_ new,” Acme’s terrifying security chief responded, in low feminine tones. “is finding _you_ somewhere you definitely should not be. Out of consideration for Her Highness’s great regard for Mistress Nutter, I will not disturb Her with tattle on your latest … lapse in judgment. Provided, of course, that you tell me exactly what you are doing here.”

Anathema didn’t even consider trying to lie to Michael. The dragon toon’s sprawling network of informants was an even more effective weapon than her strength and speed, and they were _everywhere_. “Gabriel Hornblower hired me to keep the angel toon out of trouble. Or, I think more likely, provide ironclad documentation of whatever trouble he gets into.”

“Gabriel,” Michael observed coolly, “is an absolute wanker. You can rely on me to keep an eye on Aziraphale. _She_ finds him amusing.” The dragon toon’s voice made it clear that she did not share this opinion.

“But …” Anathema hadn’t been paid yet for the job, and she could easily see Hornblower justify stiffing her on the fee.

“Miss Device. You can leave the way you came; or I can escort you via the express route.” Michael glanced pointedly over the railing. “Your choice.” 

And that, unquestionably, was that. Anathema gathered up such remnants of dignity as she could find, and descended back to the street. She pedaled her bicycle around the corner, intending to loiter out of Michael’s line of sight and wait for the angel to emerge and follow him wherever he went next (her money was on one of the few bars that welcomed toon clientele); but that plan went out of her head as soon as she spied the same dark shape she saw sliding over the garden wall not half an hour earlier. As she watched, it reared upright and shifted into a man-shape.

_Great._ Another _damn toon._

Nonetheless, she hauled out the camera again. You never know what Hornblower might be willing to pay for.

So she watched, and snapped away, as the naggingly familiar black-clad red-haired toon whistled through his teeth, which was apparently the signal to summon a throng of street kids. Well, “throng” might have been an exaggeration; it was more like four scruffy preadolescents, three boys and a girl. Their evident leader, a shortish boy with a wildly curling mop of hair, bumped fists with the toon. The other three hung back, looking wary, until the toon pulled out a basket quite obviously too large for the pocket it emerged from (and where the Hell that pocket, not to mention the basket, had been while he was in the other form but, well, _toons_ ) and started handing round what looked like shiny red apples. 

Anathema had the lowering suspicion that—despite the sordid alley surroundings and the acidulous glare of the streetlights—any photographs would turn out repellently _wholesome_.

Sighing, she got back on her bicycle and headed to the agency.

Once she climbed up to the second-floor office, she went into the tiny bathroom and washed her face and brushed her teeth. After unpinning her hair, she changed into pyjamas and robe and shuffled over to the hob to put on the kettle for a nice bedtime cup of jasmine tea.

Then she did what she always did after a particularly stressful day: nestled into the oversized leather armchair that used to belong to Great-Aunt Agnes, and pulled out from the locked desk drawer the only existing copy of _The Nice and Accurate Guide to Investigation_.

The title was a bit—all right, more than a bit—of a misnomer. Basically, the volume consisted of hundreds of pages of Agnes’s observations, musings, speculations, rules-of-thumb, cynical asides, and random jottings from the over six decades of her celebrated career. There was no apparent organization, chronological or otherwise; the spelling was wildly idiosyncratic; and many of the notes were so obscure and cryptic that they might as well have been apocalyptic prophecies. As a training manual for private investigation, it was worse than useless.

As a touchstone, an advisor, and a directory for what to do next with her life, it was infallible.

Anathema spent an hour just flipping through the pages, tracing her beloved mentor’s scribbled marginal addenda, almost hearing her sensible voice in her inner ear. Then, as always, she finished by closing the book and re-opening it at random, reading the first passage her eyes lit upon:

_When alle ye Choyces seem utterlie wrong, chuse ye Option that thou likest least._

That … didn’t seem immediately applicable to anything Anathema was dealing with right now.

Still, Anathema’s trust in Agnes was absolute. She curled up in the chair to ponder the phrase in more depth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the heroic assistance of the AO3 tech support and the brilliant members of the DIWS server, I finally managed to embed images into the first chapter. Go back and take a look, if you haven't seen them.
> 
> I probably won't add any more art to this fic, but I would adore seeing anybody else's take on my interpretation of these characters. (I am PINING for Dragon!Michael) 
> 
> Next update next Tuesday, probably.


	3. This Is It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Very well, I can take a look. But you owe me a favour, Sarge.”_   
>  _He wasn’t fooled for a minute. “Ye were always a nosy beldam, Device.”_
> 
> Murder most foul, and Anathema Device is on the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Misogynistic language, sexism, brief description of violent death, police brutality, toon destruction

“ _Wake up, witch!_ ”

Someone had busted into her office and was making a horrible racket, banging a metal trashcan against the surface of the desk. Anathema dragged her eyelids open, muscles stiff from dozing in an armchair all night.

“The Devil’s been settin’ the world afire while yon strumpet lazes a-bed!”

“G’morning, Sarge. A-chair, not a-bed, more’s the pity.” She stretched and yawned. _Ugh_. It tasted like the Kraken had risen inside her mouth. She gulped down the remainder of her cold stale tea.

“That’s _Lieutenant_ now!” Shadwell, who had supervised her rookie training and still remained more-or-less friendly even after she quit the force, banged the wastebasket on the desk again to emphasize the correction, and pointed at her like he planned on shooting her with his finger.

“Y’know, _Sarge_ ,” she said with another gaping yawn, “I may be only the Devil’s lightskirt, but I suspect that the PD might retain more female recruits if the man responsible for their training didn’t refer to them all as ‘ _hoors_ ’ and insist on random nipple inspections.”

“Aye, lass, ye might be onto something there.” The shambles of a police detective standing before her crossed his arms across the wastebasket and actually seemed to ponder for a moment. He shook his head. “But that would leave the guardians of this city open to infiltration by the forces of witchery.”

“Can’t have that.” Anathema struggled over the difficult choice whether to go for her toothbrush or coffee first. Her decision was made when she saw the takeaway cup that Shadwell had set on the desk. _Bless_ the man; he might be a pig and a boor and more than a little cracked in the head, with an accent that owed less to his upbringing than to _Blackie MacDougal_ movie serials; but he knew how to get a flatfoot (even a former one) started in the morning. “Something you want to tell me, or is this purely a social visit?”

Shadwell looked aggrieved. “Aye, we need to talk, but tisn’t anything I want tae say.” He took a deep breath, then asked, “When did ye last see Aziraphale Angel?”

She slammed her fist against the desk. “I _knew_ it was a mistake getting mixed up with toons again! Did Hornblower send you? I’ll get him his damn pictures, all right?”

“Nay. It was that great beast of a toon, Michael, that sent me ta ye.” He narrowed his eyes. “What pictures?”

 _Shit_. She waved her hand airily. “Oh, you know. Simple surveillance job. What does Michael think I know? Last I heard, _she_ was watching Aziraphale.”

Shadwell’s swirling blue and brown aura flared orange with suspicion. “She _was_. She had hopes that ye had spied something she missed.”

“There cannot possibly be anything missing from Michael’s observation files,” Anathema said drily.

“Och, wella, must be.” Shadwell took a deep breath. “Frances Acme was murdered last night.”

 _What._ “Murdered? Are you sure? I mean, not to be callous, but … she must have been over six thousand years old by this point.”

“Precious few females of any age who beat themselves to death with a plank,” Shadwell responded drily.

“Point.” And _ewwww_. “But … I mean, that doesn’t sound like a toon, either. Especially not _this_ toon. Why on Earth would Aziraphale Angel murder Acme?”

“I dinna ken why a toon does anything.” Shadwell shrugged. “But you confirm Michael’s report that Aziraphale visited Acme last night? That they argued?”

“Visit, yes; argument… ehhh. I heard voices,” Anathema said cautiously. “But I really couldn’t hear what was going on. Not before Michael interrupted.”

Shadwell harrumphed, and noisily slurped at his coffee (or rather, what Anathema knew was more like a coffee-flavoured sugar-and-milk sludge.)

“But honestly, Sarge—”

“ _Lieutenant!_ ”

“Fine, Lieutenant… Honestly, I just can’t see it. Toons don’t have to eat or anything like that, so they don’t need money. Toons can’t really be hurt, not even if you chop off their heads, drop a bomb on ‘em, and run over the remnants with a burning car, so it’s not like they’re about revenge for physical injury. And as for power or love or all the other standard motivations … most toons just want to make people _laugh_. There’s nothing funny about murder.”

Shadwell sighed, then gentled his gruff tones. “Don’t want tae be dredging up painful memories, lassie, but ye of all people should know that toons do murder, same as honest folk.”

Anathema pressed her lips together tightly, and breathed through her nose, counting silently. When she reached five, she nodded sharply and asked. “But not Acme. You must know that they practically _worshipped_ her. What’s the profit? Who gets the company? Is there a will?”

“No offense,” Shadwell’s eyes grew sharp, “but all that’s all business for the police. An organisation into which ye are no longer inducted. Unless …” he trailed off.

Anathema arched an eyebrow. “Unless …?”

Shadwell grinned at her conspiratorially. “The truth is, I _dinna_ ken a great deal about Acme. Not all of us flew so high. I’d not be averse to permitting ye tae … _consult_ with the official investigation. Cast your eyes over the crime scene, tell us if owt looks wrong or suspicious like. Any odd … phenomenomens.” 

“It’s been years, and surely Michael could …” she protested weakly, as if her hands weren’t itching to snoop about.

“Michael is a _toon_ ,” Shadwell said, like Anathema should have known better—which she did. Toons might “assist the police with their enquiries”, and even on rare occasions testify in court; but every prosecutor knew that juries wouldn’t take anything they said seriously. Toons were notorious goofballs and would swear to anything just to get a laugh.

She blew out a theatrical breath. “Very well, I can take a look. But you owe me a favour, Sarge.”

He wasn’t fooled for a minute. “Ye were always a nosy beldam, Device.”

<+>X<+>

The gardens of Eden were every bit as lovely as Anathema remembered. Whoever the designer had been (and she suspected that Frances Acme had been intimately involved) had managed to turn a half-acre city lot into a natural-looking miniature paradise, complete with gently rolling meadows, artfully random clumps of flowers and bushes, trees of every sort, even a perfect tiny waterfall and pond. 

It was a pity that the prospect was tainted by garish crime-scene tape surrounding a chalked outline and a ghastly-looking rusty splotch. 

Anathema shoved her hands into the pockets of her skirt and nodded. “Is that where …?”

“Aye,” Shadwell nodded, his aura flooding with a somber ochre. “The weapon’s been taken in as evidence, but it probably came from yon lumber heap.” He indicated a sloppy stack of construction materials near the back of the building, evidently being used to enlarge the outside dining patio. A couple of uniform officers were dutifully cataloging the lot.

Anathema regarded it thoughtfully. “So-o-o-o… A crime of passion, then? You’re thinking an improvised opportunity, rather than anything carefully planned?”

He gave a bark of laughter. “Ever known a toon capable of sticking to a plan? They’re nothing if not creatures of impulse.”

“Mmm…” she answered, neither agreeing or disagreeing. She felt vaguely uncomfortable about keeping shtumm about her observations of the other toon, the shapeshifting one. It wasn’t like her to feel guilty, especially not over a toon. Still… It must be this place, and the memories it dredged up. She could almost hear Great-Aunt Agnes admonishing her: _The work is the work_.

Oh, _bother_. She drifted nearer to the two-story-tall surrounding wall, aiming for the spot she saw the dark figure slither over. It was close to a majestic tree; Anathema was no horticulturist, but she’d bet her (increasingly unlikely) paycheck from Hornblower that it was an apple.

“Huh. Would you look at that?” she called, gazing up at the parapet. She dug into her bag and pulled out a pair of sturdy binoculars. _Come on, c’mon, bite already_ …

Anathema was so focused on mentally enticing Shadwell to discover for himself what she badly wanted him to know, that she completely missed the figure looming behind her until a thin gloved hand gripped her painfully by the shoulder.

“Surely, Lieutenant Shadwell, you didn’t bring your …. _girlfriend_ ” (this last word inflected with acid distaste) “along to a crime scene?”

Anathema stiffened. “Surely, Sarge,” she mimicked the supercilious tones, “you didn’t bring your … _mother_ along on our date?”

Shadwell sighed. “Mind that sharp tongue of yours, Device. The man’s a judge.” 

The judge let Anathema go, and she spun around to get a good look at him. He was so tall that she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye (or rather in the sunglasses), and Anathema was not a short woman. He was thin and sharp, dressed all in black, leaned on an ebony cane, and reminded her uncomfortably of the shapeshifting toon from the night before. She had a moment of panic, before she perceived his aura; it was another strange one, all jagged, perfectly distinct bands of electric colors, but it was _there_ , proof positive of humanity.

But _not_ of civility, since he answered the police detective with a condescending smirk. “It’s not a problem, Lieutenant. I will always indulge a pretty girl in a bit of sauciness.” He gave Anathema what she was sure he thought to be a gallant tip of his hat. “Youth before wisdom, my dear.”

“Pearls before swine,” she retorted.

“M’apologies, your honour,” a mortified Shadwell interjected. “Device, _Miss_ Device, is a potential witness. She’s, ah, acquainted with the victim, and familiar with the scene. I asked her m’self to see if she noticed anything amiss. Anathema, you were saying?”

Anathema noted that Shadwell did not mention her police training nor her current profession. _Hmm. Interesting_. She elected not to bring them up either.

“Well, yes, on top of the wall here,” she said brightly instead. “See? Those dark markings?” She pointed. 

“Hrmph.” Shadwell beckoned one of the uniforms to bring over a ladder and place it against the wall. He climbed it, touched the smudge, looked at his finger. He sniffed it, then licked it. Climbing back down, he displayed the black splotch. “Good eye, Device. ‘Tis paint. Toon paint.” 

“Excellent. Now we know where the angel climbed into the garden.” The judge sniffed in satisfaction.

Anathema stared at him. “Excuse me? There isn’t a speck of black anywhere on Aziraphale Angel. And he has _wings_. If he wanted to get over the wall, wouldn’t he just, y’know, _fly_?”

“That,” said the judge, with absolute conviction, “is what he _wants_ you to think.” He tugged at a silver cord hanging around his neck, which turned out to be attached to a long tubular whistle, previously concealed beneath his collar. “But I know he’s guilty. He can run all he wants. I will catch him. I will try him. I will convict him. And I will _execute_ him.” He blew four descending notes in a minor key that sounded eerily familiar, and stared expectantly at the building.

Anathema took the opportunity to whisper to Shadwell, “Are you _sure_ this lunatic is a judge?”

The police lieutenant nodded. “Aye. Spread about a fortune in the ready afore the last election. We live in a degenerate age, Device. Rumour says that he’s obtained of unpleasant information on any number of important people. Tisn’t wise to have your name written up in Doomsday’s books.”

“Wait. _Judge Doomsday_? You’ve got to be making that up.”

“You have a problem with the name, _Anathema Device_?”

She winced. Okay, that was a fair cop.

“YOU SERMONED US, JUDGE?” A deep hollow voice provoked an involuntary shiver at the base of her spine. She turned around to see four toons astride motorcycles, of all things, roll into the garden. They must have come through the headquarters building; she ached to think how much Acme would have hated the mess that surely left. A small swarm of housekeeping toons—brooms and mops and dustpans and the like—followed them, all scolding and fussing.

“Yes, I summoned you, Sergeant Azrael.” Doomsday saluted the quartet, then turned to Anathema and Shadwell, baring his teeth in a manic grin. “Behold my Toon Patrol! No longer will toons be allowed to cavort about, encouraging nonsense and insanity. There will be authority. There will be order. There will be respect for the law.”

Anathema looked over the toons and raised a sceptical eyebrow. Despite their matching blue uniforms, they were an odd lot: a tall red-faced Amazon sporting a wild snarl of scarlet hair; a cadaverous dark-skinned gentleman with an elegant affect; a chalk-pale … person slouching in a stained neckerchief and muddy boots; and their apparent leader, a … was that a _skeleton_? … wrapped in an ink-black cloak. “Respect. Yeah, that’s the ticket. This lot practically screams law and order.”

“Respect, Miss Device, comes from _discipline_ ,” Doomsday sneered. “Everyone assumes that it is impossible to permanently destroy a toon—”

“Not _everyone_ ,” Anathema challenged, with a glare that could shatter bricks. Beside her, Shadwell shifted uncomfortably.

The judge looked between the two of them, and something seemed to click. “Impossible, that is, without losing one’s own life,” he corrected himself smoothly. “But I’ve proved them wrong. Sergeant, Chalky, show them.” Between them, the skeletal and white-coloured patrollers toonhandled into position a corrugated steel barrel. Doomsday knocked off the lid with the tip of his cane, revealing a poison-green liquid with powerful acrid scent. “Turpentine, benzene, and acetone,” he announced, “a concoction of my own devising. I call it … Holy Water.” 

One of the housekeeping toons—a wooden scrub-brush—blundered against his ankle and burbled an apology. The judge looked down and, with a knife-edged grin, used his cane to pin it into place. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

The leader of the Toon Patrol bent over to pick up the little toon between a bony thumb and forefinger. Its bristles quivered, then went stiff with terror. He lowered it into the barrel of Holy Water with great delicacy, so that there wasn’t a hint of splash.

It took hardly a minute. The scrubber made inarticulate screeching noises as it dissolved into a mass of roiling bubbles, then disappeared. A foul-smelling wisp of dark smoke arose from the surface, dissipating quickly.

“That’s how you give a toon a proper brush-off, eh, Raven?” the red Patrol member quipped.

“Indeed, Scarlet, perhaps the entirety of Toontown could use a good scrubbing,” the black one smirked.

Doomsday said nothing, just crossed his arms across his thin chest and watched.

Anathema bit the inside of her cheek and tried not to be sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tune that Doomsday plays to summon the Toon Patrol is of course the opening to the “Dies Irae”, which is iconic in film scores to denote darkness and death. Here's a nifty little overview, if you're not familiar with the trope: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-3-bVRYRnSM
> 
> Hope to have the next chapter up Thursday!


	4. Night of Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Newt,” she said, after taking appreciative gulp of the caffeinated elixir, “I need a favour.”_
> 
> Anathema calls on Newt. Everybody calls on Anathema.
> 
> (or, o hai Crowley _et al._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Brief mention of traffic accident; brief mention of violent death; cigarette smoking.

Anathema wanted to see Newt.

Anathema wanted to see Newt _desperately_.

The only thing Anathema wanted to see more than Newt was the cup of coffee that Newt was currently setting in front of her on the counter of the diner next to the train tracks.

It was over two years ago when they met. The previous evening’s passage from _The Nice and Accurate Guide_ contained the fairly straightforward advice to make sure one was prepared for any emergency; so Anathema had been sitting at her desk, checking over the contents of her first-aid kit, when she happened to glance out the window and witness a young man with a tattered Army jacket and a pure, radiant aura struck by a passing taxicab. She dragged him back up to her office to patch him up. 

He blinked at her and said, “Oh. I guess the world _doesn’t_ end today, then” and gave her the shyest, sweetest smile. She’d been hopelessly gone on him since.

It turned out that Newton Pulsifer had been recently discharged from the military (Private, First Class), even more recently let go from a succession of short-lived positions (bank teller, file clerk, and clipper at the newspaper morgue), and most recently (as in that morning) summarily fired from his dream job at the telephone company after he had somehow managed to set no fewer than three switchboards on fire. Anathema’s unwavering confidence gave him the boost he needed to sort his life out, and he’d been working at the diner now for sixteen months, recently promoted to assistant manager. He still hoped to use his veteran’s benefits to go back to school and do something-or-other in engineering, but Anathema secretly would prefer that he didn’t. Newt was terrible at anything mechanical, but an excellent fry cook, and the world would be a poorer place without his coffee.

“Newt,” she said, after taking appreciative gulp of the caffeinated elixir, “I need a favour.”

“Uh-uh,” he shook his head. “I would, but I’m flat busted until payday. And if I borrow from the till again, I’m sure to get caught. I _need_ this job, Anathema.”

She would have been a little more insulted by his automatic assumption, except that she had long been in the habit of leaning on his regular paycheck when the private investigator business was going through a dry spell, which had been something like the last three years. Anathema instantly made a fervent, sincere resolution to start being a better girlfriend. Tomorrow. Because she really had to take advantage of Newt’s sweet nature again today.

“That’s not it.” She pulled Hornblower’s camera out of her shoulder bag and set it on the counter. “Could you hang on to this for me? I don’t want to keep it at the office right now. And,” she grimaced, but rooted out her last five dollar bill and placed it on top, “get the film that’s in there developed, maybe? Go someplace out of the neighborhood, somewhere they don’t know you.”

Newt didn’t pick up the camera. “Are you in trouble?” he asked quietly.

“Aren’t I always?” Anathema laughed. It didn’t sound very convincing; Newt wasn’t an idiot. “You know me.”

“Yeah. I do. Look—” Whatever Newt was going to say was interrupted by a rude noise from down the counter. Anathema rolled her eyes when she saw who was sitting there. Hastur and Ligur, her least favourite diner regulars. Even though they looked like complete physical opposites—Hastur was pasty-colored with black holes for eyes, and what looked like a dirty mop atop his head, while Ligur was as dark and sleek and oily as his partner was pale and disheveled—they matched perfectly in their scruffy, soiled trenchcoats and the almost visible foul miasma that lurked about them. Anathema had never tried to look at their auras; she was pretty sure she didn’t want to see.

“I told you to keep those reptiles of yours out of here,” Newt said, but without much hope. Hastur and Ligur ostensibly made their living with some sort of sad animal act down by the wharf; but they always seemed to be here, drinking endless refills of coffee and cadging hot water to mix with ketchup and milk from the counter to make hobo soup.

“Relax, kid. They’re outside.” Hastur put up his hands, mocking surrender. “We just wanted to say howdy to Annie here.”

Anathema _hated_ being called Annie.

“Heard you were called in for some big case with Hornblower Studios,” Ligur smirked.

“Funny, _I_ heard that she was out at Eden with the _poe_ -leece this morning,” Hastur added.

“Really? And _I_ heard that you both smell like shi—” she glanced over at Newt “—poo.”

Hastur leered. It was an ugly thing. “Going back to the Toontown beat, Annie? Gonna bring in Gabby Goat for _kid_ -napping?” He elbowed Ligur, who gave a hissing cackle. “Maybe go after Porky Pig for _ham_ -burgling?” 

Before she knew it, Anathema had snatched a bread knife off the counter, and was jabbing it into Hastur’s chest. “Let’s get this straight right here and now. I. Don’t. Work. For. Toons.” She swung it around to point at Ligur, who abruptly stopped laughing. “And the next person who hints that I do, is going to be cursed so thoroughly that his balls, and his daddy’s balls, and his daddy’s daddy’s balls swill turn green and shrivel up for _six generations back_.”

With that, she stomped out.

“Sheesh,” said Hastur. “Don’t she like jokes?”

“Not about toons.” Newt shook his head. “You remember those toon riots years back, before the war? And the old lady who died in that explosion?”

“Yeah,” said Ligur. “But that was a long time ago. Don’t tell me she’s still scared?”

“Not scared,” Newt said. “ _Furious_. That woman was the closest thing Anathema had to a mother.”

<+>X<+>

_Get it together, Device_. Anathema glared at her hands until they stopped shaking. A brisk walk back to the office was just the ticket. If she was going to start threatening jerks in diners, in _Newt’s_ diner, what was _wrong_ with her, she needed to work off the nervous energy of the morning, the night before, the whole freaking previous eight years.

What she did _not_ need was someone apparently setting fire to her front door.

“Hey! Hey, hey, _stop_!” she yelled, racing up the stairs. The dark figure whirled to face her, and she realized that he was just lighting a cigarette … with his _fingers_. 

Anathema stared at the elegant, long-fingered hand, flames dancing between index finger and thumb. Another toon. Of _course_.

As her gaze travelled from the hand, up the black-sleeved arm, the long thin neck, the sharp-jawed, hook-nosed face, the impenetrable dark glasses, she realized that this was not _just_ another toon. “You’re Crawly Demon.” Aziraphale Angel’s screen nemesis. The shapeshifter. And, without doubt, the snake in the garden the night before.

“At your service.” He carelessly brushed the brim of his hat. “But that’s just a stage name. Hate it, really. A bit too squirming-at-your-feet-ish for my tastes. But m’agent insisted and … look, can we talk on the other side of the door?”

“I don’t know. I like this hallway,” she answered, deadpan, crossing her arms. “Isn’t there some sort of warning against inviting demons across your threshold?”

He rolled his eyes. “Okay, if you want to play that way … My real name’s Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley. Fair trade for the invite?”

“Hmm. Maybe. What’s the J stand for?”

He grinned. “You’re the detective.”

Anathema couldn’t keep herself from grinning back. Oh, he _was_ charming. And charismatic and even attractive, if you liked the type. (She had got a good look at that arse even as she charged up the stairs.) She unlocked the door and waved him in. 

Anathema took the seat behind her desk and pointed the demon toon to the client chair, trying to work out what he wanted. Possibly he’d sussed out that she’d been at Eden last night, and wanted to know if he’d been spotted. More likely, he just wanted to drop some dirt on Angel. But why to her and not the police? Well, that freaky Toon Patrol and the psycho Judge might be a bit much even for a demon, she supposed. 

She used not to mind the fact that toons had no auras for her to examine. To be honest, she had actually rather liked it. It was … _exciting_ , not to be able to instantly read another person’s character, not to know without doubt how they were feeling; to be forced to get to learn about them the normal way, by words and actions and the slow march of time. She had even dated a toon boy once, briefly (no big star, just a bit player, but he’d been in the crowd scenes of a couple of those Disney features that _everyone_ had seen). 

The mystery had stopped being fun the day her Great-Aunt had been killed. Frances Acme had told her Agnes was a hero. Michael had told her that the threat was over, that everyone was safe now.

Anathema had learned that she would never again do without the security of _knowing_. That she would never trust a toon again. 

And certainly not a _demon_ toon. She didn’t need to see an aura to know that his nature was to lie. To betray. To destroy. 

She didn’t even need to see his films to know that. Anyone could tell, just by looking at him.

“What do you want?”

Crowley hadn’t taken the offered chair, but was standing awkwardly, hip cocked, the tips of his left-hand fingers jammed into the pockets of the tightest pair of trousers she’d ever seen. “Er.” He took a drag on the cigarette he held in his right.

The detective sighed. “Look, Mr. Crowley—”

“Just Crowley.”

“Fine, Crowley, I’m a bit busy today. I’m sure you’ve already heard…” she trailed off encouragingly.

The toon fidgeted. Took off his hat, raked his fingers through his hair, replaced it. “Yeah. About that.” He scratched the back of his neck.

You’d think a demon would have a bit more … swagger. “Is this about Aziraphale Angel?”

Crowley brightened. “Yeah. That’s it. He … he didn’t do it, you know.”

_What_. “Then he’ll be in no danger if he turns himself into the authorities.”

He scoffed. “You’ve met them. There’s no justice in Toontown now.”

Anathema steepled her fingers. “Perhaps. Why do you say that the angel is innocent?” She didn’t think that Crowley was about to confess himself, but … She wished she had her notebook out already.

“Ehhhhh…” Crowley waved his hands vaguely, scattering cigarette sparks and ash. “It’s just… Thing is… That’s the thing. He’s so, so _innocent_ , you know? Not naïve, not really, but _good_. Just … good. And, yeah, okay, deep down, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing. But he’d never have killed Her. He _loved_ Her.”

“I’m sure he’d appreciate this ringing character endorsement.” Anathema sat back. “But people kill the ones they love all the time.”

“Not Aziraphale.” Stubborn.

Anathema regarded him silently for a few minutes. “Why do you care?”

“He’s an all right actor. We made a good team.” Crowley seemed prepared for this one. “We … had an arrangement. Balanced each other out.”

It was plausible. Anathema didn’t believe a word of it. “What is it that you want me to do?”

“You …” Crowley thought for a moment. “You’re the only human witness who can put him there.”

“You want me to _lie to the police_?” Anathema stood, ready to throw him out. “This conversation is over.”

“No! No no no no!” Now the demon sounded truly agitated. “No, I just meant, I thought that you owed him, you know? You got him in trouble, you should help to get him out! Prove his innocence!”

_Not_ , the detective thought, ‘ _catch the real murderer_ ’. _Interesting_.

Crowley kept talking. “I can pay you, you know. I’ve got plenty of money, real human money, not that simoleons crap. Just …”

“Mr. Crowley.” Anathema borrowed Great-Aunt Agnes’s most cutting tones. “I do not work for toons. And even if I did, I do not work for toons who _lie to me_. Count yourself fortunate that I don’t summon the police myself right—”

Her indignant speech was cut short by a brisk rapping on the door. Even behind his dark glasses, Anathema could see Crowley’s eyes widen in panic. He dropped his cigarette on the floor.

It was all Agnes’s fault. If Anathema hadn’t been trying to channel her at that very moment, she would never have grabbed the toon’s shoulder and pointed at the ceiling. 

Crowley nodded sharply in comprehension and vanished from sight.

Anathema ground out the still-glowing cigarette butt with the toe of her shoe and opened the door. And blinked.

Aziraphale Angel stood in front of her, blue eyes wide, soft fawn hat with the golden band held in front of him like a shield. “Ah. Er. May I come in?”

Wordlessly, she stepped back and gestured a welcome.

“Thank you, my dear. This _is_ the Nutter Investigative Agency, yes? My name is Aziraphale Angel, and you are…?”

“Yes it is, I know who you are, Anathema Device, and _what are you doing here_?”

“Delightful to meet you, Miss Device. As to my purpose, _every_ one knows that when a toon's in trouble, there's only one place to go: Agnes Nutter’s agency.” He smiled at her, bright with hope.

Anathema drew in a sharp breath. “Not for years. Agnes is dead.”

“Oh. Oh, my dear girl.” Those sparkling eyes misted over with tears. “I am so terribly sorry for your loss.” 

She had the oddest feeling that the angel toon really meant it, that he truly mourned her Great-Aunt and was grieved for Anathema’s own pain. She felt a sudden warm wave of comfort, and hated him for it. “Thanks. I guess. Look, if you want me to go to the police with you …”

“Oh, goodness. I do hope it won’t come to that.” He looked at the chair that Crowley had scorned. “May I?” At her nod, he went on. “I was rather hoping, you see, that you could clear him of all suspicion.”

“Clear … _him_?” Anathema had the distinct sensation that they were carrying on two entirely separate conversations.

The toon nodded eagerly. “Yes. Crowley, that is, Crawly Demon, you probably know him as, my … wily adversary, in the films, you know …” He took in her stunned look. “Oh _dear_. You didn’t … He wasn’t _under_ suspicion, was he … oh, my, I’ve _quite_ put my foot into it now, haven’t I?”

Anathema sank back into her chair. “Why d’you think that, um, Crowley, needs my help?”

“Yes. Well. Ah.” Aziraphale turned his hat in his hands. “You see, I was _with_ Moth-, er, Her High-, that is, Frances Acme the night before She … died. We …” A shadow passed over his face. “Anyway, that’s not important. She told me that She knew that Crowley was, that is to say, he had this … funny little habit, of … _borrowing_ from Her garden.” 

“He stole from her.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say _that_. Just, just a prank, really.” He set the hat back in his lap. “And, of course, She didn’t like the way he … encouraged the children.”

Anathema narrowed her eyes. “Acme didn’t have kids.”

“Not … _technically_ , no. But She cared, very much, about the street children. You know. The ones with no one else to look after them. She had set up a center for them, did you know that?” The angel toon’s expression had gone quite soft. “Employed that lovely lady to look after them. They called her Madame Tracy, although she isn’t, of course, not _really_. A, er, ‘ _madame_ ’, you know. A very respectable woman.” His eyes fell. “Crowley … oh, I’m sure he meant well. He truly adores children. But … he was of the opinion that they should be learning … certain … shall we say, _practical_ skills, and …” He trailed off.

“He was suborning children into, what, pickpocketing? Swindling? Shell games?” Yes, this is exactly what she would have expected of that sly, slithering toon. She should never have let him into her office.

“No, no! You quite misunderstand!” The angel was wringing his hands now. “He, umm … it’s the same as the way he is always taking the younger folks under his, well, I shouldn’t say _wing_ now, should I? He wouldn’t like that, but … On the set, I mean! Takes them into his trailer, shows them a few tricks, helps them to become better at the business—not actors, but, you know, the technical types, set designers, Foley artists, grips, all of that!”

“He entices vulnerable subordinates into his personal space and _grooms_ them?” The investigator found herself a little shocked. Honestly, if Aziraphale was trying to set up his acting partner as a suspect, he was doing a _masterful_ job. But somehow, looking into that guileless face, Anathema believed that he really did think he was being helpful. 

“Oh, I can tell by your expression that I am making a complete _hash_ of this.” The pale toon shook his head. “But really, it’s his fault. He just adores having a wicked reputation.” He looked back up, and fixed his eyes earnestly upon her. “But you simply must trust me. He isn’t _bad_ , you know; he’s just drawn that way. I’m quite certain that he didn’t hurt anybody. At heart he’s, just a little bit mind you, a _good_ person.”

“Tell _everybody_ , Angel, why don’t you?” a grumpy voice came from the ceiling.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale looked up, a comical picture of exaggerated shock. “What are you doing here?”

“Stopping _you_ getting into trouble!” the other snapped back.

“Me? Why should _I_ —”

Their bickering was suddenly drowned out by a loud pounding on the door. “ _OPEN UP IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!_ ” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the broken image embeds. I am not quite as bad at tech as Newt, but ...
> 
> Still seem to be on track for regular Tues / Thurs updates. What strange miracle is this? 
> 
> (P.S. Heartfelt gratitude for every hit, kudos, and comment. It isn't necessary, mind you, but I'm not too proud to want feedback...)


	5. No More Rehearsing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The absolute last thing Anathema wanted to do was protect a pair of toons. The Toon Patrol were weird and scary, that Judge Doomsday was as creepy as a Satanic nunnery; but they were the lawful authorities, and the designated people to deal with this mess._
> 
> The Toon Patrol search the agency for the fugitives. Anathema learns the backstory of the toon riots, and uncovers some of Crowley’s and Aziraphale’s secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Strong language, Non-graphic descriptions of violence and murder, police abusing their authority

_Chuse ye Option that thou likest least_ , Agnes had said.

Well, surely that was easy to decide. The absolute last thing Anathema wanted to do was protect a pair of toons. The Toon Patrol were weird and scary, that Judge Doomsday was as creepy as a Satanic nunnery; but they were the lawful authorities, and the designated people to deal with this mess.

She tried not to think of a little scrub-brush, squeaking in terror. She tried not to think of Hornblower’s cold eyes, as he handed her a camera. She tried not to think of Great-Aunt Agnes, marching out to her death, sensible cardigan stuffed with dynamite and pockets filled with roofing nails.

_Dammit_. 

“You. Demon.” She pointed. “Back up to the ceiling, and make like a snake.” 

Crowley gave her a clipped nod and snapped his fingers. 

“Angel, come here.” She went to her floor-to-ceiling bank of file cabinets and stood on tiptoes to tug at the top drawer.

“My dear? I don’t think—”

“Yeah, that’s unfortunately obvious. We’ve got to hide you.” The latch finally came free, and the entire row of cabinets folded down, revealing a tidy Murphy bed. “Quick, now!”

“You cannot be suggesting that I have anything to fear from the police!” Aziraphale sounded sincerely aggrieved.

“I’m not suggesting, I’m _saying_!” Anathema did not have time for this. She grabbed the toon by the back of his collar and physically shoved him onto the bed. “Now keep quiet!”

“I really must insist— _mmmphhh_!” Anathema had kicked the foot of the bed in, and the contraption folded up (one angel inside) to regain the appearance of perfectly ordinary office furniture. Furniture which was currently vociferously complaining by means of garbled exclamations and muffled thumps.

“I sssssswear, Angel, one more ssssssound out of you and I will _eat_ Detective Girl!” a shadowy corner of the ceiling hissed. The file cabinet relapsed into a sullen silence.

Anathema sucked in a deep breath, grabbed a broom, and opened the door.

“ _Stop it you idiots it’s getting away_!” she shrieked, charging the intimidating entities of the Toon Patrol, waving her broom wildly, smacking as many shins and stepping on as many feet as she could manage in the process.

All four naturally turned to stare as she clattered down the stairs, only stopping as she opened the outside door. “Dammit.” She slammed the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily. “Some police you lot are. Couldn’t you hear me trying to catch that thing up there?”

Chalky and Scarlet exchanged confused looks. Azrael gazed impassively. Raven finally ventured, “Catch what?”

“Duck.” Anathema invested the word with withering scorn.

“Duck?” Scarlet asked, looking around for an incoming missile.

“Duck,” Anathema repeated, even more firmly. “You know, thing that quacks? Swims? Has ears? I _just_ recovered it for a client. Now I’ll have to explain how Toontown’s Finest let their precious feathered friend get away again.” She huffed in disgust. “You might as well come in, but make it quick. I’ve got a full day’s work to do all over, thanks to you.” 

She led the way into her office, hiding her glee at the way all four of the toons were busy convincing themselves that they had seen an errant waterfowl escape. She couldn’t even blame that on their nature; humans were just as likely to come to believe anything that you insisted on confidently enough. It was one of the first tricks Agnes had taught her.

“WE ARE IN SEARCH OF A THELONIOUS TOON,” the patrol leader boomed.

“No felons here, monkeys or otherwise,” Anathema answered. “But feel free to look around.” She draped herself against a bank of file cabinets, arms crossed. _Not_ the one concealing the fold-down bed; she thought it smarter to look like she was trying to protect an entirely different locale. It worked; Scarlet roughly shoved her aside to paw through the files (mostly ancient ones from Great-Aunt Agnes’s first decades on the job) and, finding nothing angel-shaped, yanked them all out and scattered them across the floor. She banged on the rest of the cabinets, apparently hoping to discover a nicely-incriminating hollow echo, but Agnes Nutter would have never put up with such shoddy construction in _her_ office.

Raven, meanwhile, was searching through the tiny kitchenette, shoving food off the shelves and out of the miniature refrigerator. He filled the sink with water, under the apparent impression that a toon could hide in the drainpipes—which was probably true—and smashed into it her coffeepot—which was just _blasphemous_ , in Anathema’s opinion—for good measure.

Chalky wandered around the rest of the small office, gazing vaguely into space. Anathema wasn’t worried that they might spot Crowley; not only was he a smallish black snake tucked into a shadow, but she had learned that only very well-trained investigators were any good at searching above their own heads, and this lot reeked of that “amateur henchgoon” smell. Chalky’s eyes fell upon her desk, and started pulling at drawers, reaching at last the locked one where she kept _The Nice And Accurate Guide_. 

Anathema would swear that she didn’t flinch, not in the slightest. Nonetheless, the white Patrol member gave her an oily grin, and mimed turning a key.

Anathema shook her head. “Show me a warrant.”

The toon looked over at their leader, who drifted over like the approach of nightfall. He lifted up one boney forefinger and turned his death’s-head grin on Anathema. “SKELETON KEY.” He inserted the finger into the lock, wiggled it about for a moment, and the drawer popped open.

She couldn’t help herself. Anathema lunged for the book, but Sergeant Azrael pulled it out first. “WHAT IS THIS? COUNTER-BANNED LITERATURE?”

“It’s not _contraband_ , it’s just a _souvenir_ , it doesn’t mean anything to anyone but me, give it _back_ ,” she said through gritted teeth, trying not to plead.

“GIVE US THE ANGEL,” he bargained.

She clenched her fists. “I don’t know where he is.”

“PITY. MAYBE THIS WILL … CLEAN UP YOUR MEMORIES.” And he tossed the volume into the kitchen sink filled with filthy water.

Anathema stood still. Her teeth sank into the inside of her cheek until blood filled her mouth; but she said nothing. 

The Patrol leader watched her through his empty eye sockets for several minutes. Finally, he shrugged. “WE’LL KEEP YOU UNDER SURVIVELANCE, DEVICE.” He waved to the rest of his squad, who followed him out the door. Chalky smeared a glob of leftover meatloaf into the rug on his way out.

The minute the door clicked behind them, Anathema shrieked and sprinted for the kitchenette. She snatched her book out of the sink, grabbing for a dish towel. “No no no no nononono _no_ ” she moaned, patting the pages frantically. She needed more towels, she needed …

There was a dull _thwumppp_ on the counter next to her. “Fetch Aziraphaaaale!” a gravelly voice hissed. 

Anathema was so distraught she barely registered the enormous black snake coiled next to her elbow. The demon could deal with his partner himself, the last thing she cared about right now was a _toon_.

Crowley waited a moment, then slithered away, muttering “Stupid ssssstupid human creatures.” She added another damp towel to the discards piled at her feet. What if the book was unsalvageable? What if her Great-Aunt’s words were lost to her forever? Her eyes blurred with tears. This felt like Agnes dying all over again, except that this time it was all Anathema’s fault.

She heard a thumping, and at the edge of her vision saw the snake wrapped around the top handle of the fake cabinets, desperately trying to tug it free. She flung her current towel down and snapped, “Fine! Let me get that before you break it.” She hauled the bed back to the open position, and out tumbled a very flattened, very _very_ cross Aziraphale. 

“Miss Device, I—”

“No time, Angel!” Crowley cut in. “Book emergency!”

Bright blue eyes widened, and pink lips rounded into a surprised O. The white-haired toon paused just a few seconds to re-inflate to his normal soft plumpness before fluttering into the kitchen to where Anathema’s beloved _Guide_ lay, waterlogged and bedraggled.

“Oh. Oh, my,” Aziraphale breathed. His hands hovered just above the volume, not quite touching. “Miss Device, may I?”

She scowled automatically, then shrugged. It’s not like he could make things any worse. “Go ahead, it’s already ruined anyhow.”

Aziraphale lay the tips of his fingers reverently upon the soggy cover. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, like someone about to savour a delicious meal. His hands began to … _glow_. The warm golden light gradually spread from his fingers to encompass the entire book, until it shone like a small rectangular star. Then, agonizingly slowly, the light receded, creeping back into the angel’s hands, leaving behind unstained pages, crisp edges, a smooth flat binding…

Aziraphale opened his eyes and smiled. “There. That should do it. Perhaps not _quite_ good as new, but I think we caught it before the damage was irreversible.”

The detective picked the book up, hardly daring to breathe. She riffled through the perfectly dry pages. The ink didn’t even seem smudged. “What did you … how did you …”

The toon actually chuckled. “Come, come, Miss Device. I am an _angel_ , after all. You would hardly be surprised to see a dragon toon breathe fire. Or, or a pianoforte toon play music. Why shouldn’t an angel toon perform miracles?”

“ _O Lord, heal this book_ ,” Crowley intoned with mock piety.

“Hush, you. All right, it isn’t exactly a _grand_ miracle, and I admit that I have some particular affinity with the written word, but …”

“ _Thank you_.” Anathema never thought that she would say those words to a toon, but poured out, wrenched from the bottom of her heart. “I mean it. I can’t … thank you so much.”

“Oh, no.” Aziraphale turned slightly pink. “Thank _you_. It is ever so lovely, that book. Such a joy to repair it. So filled with love.”

“It … was my Great-Aunt Agnes’s.” Anathema answered, hugging it tightly to her chest. “I miss her so much.”

“Oh my dear,” the angel toon said, eyes suspiciously bright. “I am sure that it holds great value for you. But I meant that the book is filled with _her_ love for _you_.”

She pressed her lips together tightly. She would _not_ cry again.

“Might still get musty, though,” Crowley said, ruthlessly killing the moment. “Don’t know if you got to it quick enough. That library of yours positively stinks of mold.”

“Mmphh,” Aziraphale pondered. “I’ve been told that a commercial desiccant can take care of that problem. There’s this new product, I believe it’s called _Kitty Litter_? But honestly, you old serpent, it’s not like you couldn’t have taken care of it yourself. No need to wait for me.”

“Eh. Don’t care about books. Not like you.” The snake writhed in circles, displaying flashes of brilliant ruby scales on its belly. “Knew you’d do it up proper.”

_All right. All right._ Anathema ground the heels of her hands into her eyes. She was Anathema Device of the Nutter Investigative Agency. She was tougher, smarter, more dangerous than this. The past twenty-four was not going to change that. “All right. Aziraphale Angel. We need to figure out what to do with you.”

“Me? But I told you, my dear, I came here for …” He glanced at the other toon, and was silent.

“Angel,” Crowley sighed. “You may not have noticed, but those goons were looking for _you_. You’re wanted for murder, after all.”

“Nonsense.” The angel straightened his tie defiantly. “There must be some sort of mix-up. Nobody would believe anything so ridiculous.”

“Nobody? How can somebody so clever be so stupid?” The snake sneered. “How do you think I heard about? Your _own agent_ is spreading rumours! She’s calling you _a bit of a fallen angel_.”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. “Uriel? She would never! Just because Dagon—”

“Oi! Leave _my_ agent out of it. At least she encourages me, instead of always belittling me behind my back!”

“Would you two stop bickering? You’re giving me a headache.” Anathema rubbed her temples. “You”—she pointed at Aziraphale, and then to one of her client chairs—"Sit there. You”—she pointed next at Crowley, then shoved over the ottoman matched to her own armchair—"I am not talking to a giant snake, it never helps. Just … turn into something less slithery, and sit or loaf or sprawl or whatever it is you call that thing you do that’s between standing and lying down.”

Mutely, the pair obeyed.

“I think it’s time we were all honest with each other.” She chose to perch on the edge of the desk, allowing her to look down at both of them. “Aziraphale Angel. Last night, what were you arguing with Acme about?”

“Artistic differences.” The toon looked away. 

Anathema crossed her arms. “Where did you go after you left Eden?”

Aziraphale remained silent.

Anathema rolled her eyes. “Fine. Anthony J. Crowley, what were _you_ doing at Eden last night?”

“According to _him_ ,” the demon stuck out a forked tongue at his screen partner, “I was _stealing_.”

She threw her hands up in the air. “Y’know, I have no clue as to why either of you think this is going to help protect the other…”

“I’m not trying to _protect_ Crowley!” Aziraphale said, much affronted. “I am an angel. He is a demon. We are … hereditary enemies!”

“Wot he said,” Crowley nodded. “Just trying to, um, save my career. Our whatchmacallit. Arrangement.”

“Exactly so.”

Anathema ground her teeth. “And it is clearly _far_ more important to indulge how much you dislike each other than to, y’know, work together to solve an actual freaking murder. Of an actual person. Which actually happened. In case you’ve forgotten.”

That shut them up for a minute. Then Aziraphale asked, quietly, “How exactly, if you know, was Moth-, Frances Acme that is, killed?”

Anathema hesitated. “It … wasn’t nice.”

Crowley said grimly, “It never is,” just at the same time the angel answered, “My dear, I know that I appear silly and soft, but I _am_ a Principality, originally created to guard and protect. I assure you I can handle a few unsavoury details.”

“If you must know,” she said, “Acme was beaten to death. By a handy scrap of lumber. A plank.”

To her surprise, the effect on both toons was electric. The demon toon gave a low whistle. Aziraphale stiffened, then said, “No. You mean a two-by-four.”

Anathema grabbed for a perfectly straight face and held it in place with both hands. “Why do you say that?”

“Er. Lucky guess?”

Crowley sighed. “Angel. You might as well tell her. Otherwise, you’re as good as confessing to the whole thing.”

The other toon said nothing, shaking his head stubbornly.

The demon toon glared at him, then looked at Anathema with resignation. “Okay. Detective Girl. This is … toon stuff, okay? And I thought, _we_ thought, practically ancient history by now. But apparently not.”

“Crowley, _no_. It can’t be … You mustn’t…”

“Hush, Angel, she’s got to know. So.” He sat a little straighter, wiped his hands on his thighs. “Yeah. So. Y’know about the toon riots, before the war, right?”

Anathema nodded, but said nothing.

“Most people think it was just a bunch of crazy toons, mad at the humans because toons be crazy, y’know? But that’s not how it was. There was a whole … faction, you might say. That, well, they fell out with Acme.”

The detective stared him straight in the eyes. She wished he’d take off his dark glasses for this conversation. “Including you?”

“Ehhhhh…” Crowley wiggled his hand from side to side. “I didn’t _fall out_ so much as _saunter vaguely away_. But yeah, this was my lot. More or less.”

Anathema felt a hot fury rise within her. She looked at the restored book still sitting on the edge of her desk and shoved the anger back down. Right now, she needed information more than she needed vengeance. But she couldn’t keep the edge from her voice as she asked, “ _Your_ lot?”

The demon toon took off his hat, scrubbed his hands through his flaming hair, and put it back on. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t care.” Crowley was briefly wreathed in scarlet flames, then belched out a plume of grey ash. “Better. Okay. Look. I wasn’t anybody back then. But there was this toon. Lucifer. Big shot. Handsome, charismatic, brilliant actor. Up there with all the swoony leading-men, Valentino, Fairbanks, that type. They used to call him _The Morning and the Evening Star_.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Truly remarkable. It’s such a shame what happened.”

“Wait. You’re talking about Morningstar? The leader of the riots?” Anathema leaned forward.

“Yep. But this was before all that. The thing was … thing was, Lucifer was a black-and-white toon. Once colour film came along, he couldn’t even get a part in a porn flick. Call ‘em _blue movies_ for a reason, y’know.” The demon looked at the back of his hands, watching scales ripple up and disappear. “He was … good to me, though. I had just the one trick, the snake thing. He took an interest, taught me everything I know about the business.”

Against her will, Anathema flashed back to a memory of her teenaged self, newly orphaned and scared and mad at the world. Her Great-Aunt, sitting behind this very desk, arms folded. “ _Seeing auras—and yes, I believe you—is all very well, girl, but there will come a time when it isn’t enough. You need to learn to read people in more reliable ways_.”

Crowley collapsed back at an impossible angle, exhaled another puff of smoke, and went on. “Anyways, what I didn’t know then was that Lucifer had … ideas. About toons. How we were stronger, better, more powerful than humans. We don’t need much to survive. We can’t be killed. We can do things humans think are impossible. Stuff like that. He started badmouthing Acme. Said that She kept us down, steering us all into careers ‘ _singing and dancing and acting the fool_ ’, all to keep humans from being afraid of us. It turned into … this whole Thing.”

“A dreadful time,” the angel toon confirmed. “Everyone was on edge. Lucifer, well, he was calling himself Morningstar by then… Michael threw him out of Eden, quite violently. I saw it myself. Morningstar, he … he limped away, vowing vengeance on Mother, on all of us, swearing that he’d show the humans how much they had to fear.” He twisted his fingers nervously. “I am ashamed to say that … not a few among us … thought that he had the right idea. They didn’t call it ‘ _rioting_ ’. They saw it as a … justified rebellion.”

“That was their weapon of choice,” Crowley went on. “The two-by-four. Not so much on humans; Morningstar liked to … well, he encouraged toons to ‘ _get creative_ ’. But against other toons, ones who didn’t want to join up, they called it a ‘ _clue-by-four_ ’. To help ‘em ‘ _see reason_ ’. Morningstar’s little joke.”

“I didn’t know anything about this,” the detective said slowly. _Why did nobody ever tell us anything about this?_ “So, um. Crowley. Did… did _you_ take part in these riots?” She wasn’t sure, now, that she wanted to know the answer.

“No. Not as such.” The snakey demon held up his hands, as if to ward off the accusation. “I swear it. I never approved of their tactics. Not a big fan of violence, me. All I ever did was ask questions. Like, ‘ _Why do we all have to live in Toontown?_ ’ And ‘ _Why do we all have to be entertainers? Why can’t we be nannies, gardeners, astronomers, if we want?_ ’ That sort of thing. All I ever wanted was a _choice_.”

“She was trying to keep us safe!” Aziraphale suddenly exploded into anger. “She loved us like Her own children!”

The other toon leaned forward. “She _treated_ us like children! And She made a pretty penny out of it, didn’t She?” To Anathema’s ears, this had all the overtones of a well-trodden argument.

The angel twisted around to face him, shaking a finger. “She had a _Plan_! You _know_ that!”

“Well, if She _did_ , She’s made a right bollocks of it, didn’t She?” the demon sneered. “Where is this Great Pustulant Plan _now_?”

Anathema stared. She had always thought that toons didn’t want anything but to make people laugh. She had had no idea that there was so much politics, such ideological passion in the community. She wondered if any humans did.

“Oh? And your precious Morningstar?” Aziraphale snipped. “What happened to all of _his_ followers, after he disappeared? Weren’t they treated as nameless nobodies? Interchangeable? _Disposable_?”

“At least he _tried_! Unlike _some_ toons I could mention!”

“I beg your pardon! _I_ try!”

“Is that what you call it? Bowing and scraping and accepting every humiliating role you’re offered?” Crowley thundered. “Whacking me over and over and over again, for _six years_ , with that great bloody sword of yours?”

Aziraphale deflated. “It’s just _smiting_ , Crowley. It doesn’t cause any permanent harm. I wouldn’t stand for that.”

“It fucking _hurts_!”

“I … I know.” The white-haired toon looked down. “I never wanted to use it. I _tried_ , Crowley. You know that. You’ve seen it. Just yesterday, I—”

“What I saw yesterday,” the other interrupted, “was an incompetent actor trying to cover up for forgetting his lines.”

Anathema was getting tired of all this interpersonal drama. “Right, I _get_ it. You two hate each other. Can we focus in on what happened last night? Aziraphale, is that what you went to talk to Acme about?”

“In … in a sense. You see,” the angel seemed profoundly embarrassed, “I went to ask Her for … for another flaming sword.”

Crowley gave a sharp bark of laughter. “So you _did_ lose it, then?”

Aziraphale muttered something.

“Sorry,” Anathema said. “Didn’t catch that.”

“I gave it away!”

“You _wot_?”

“What would you have me do, Crowley?” the angel answered, practically in tears. “I _loathe_ that thing, all I ever do is smite you with it, and Pepper … she’s so young, just a baby really, you know her, and it’s so terrible on the streets and those boys are just beastly to her, not Adam and the others, not her _friends_ , but those great greasy bullies, she needs something to protect herself!”

Anathema glanced over to where Crowley was sitting frozen, staring at Aziraphale’s back. At first she assumed that he shared her disquiet at this cavalier handing over of an incendiary toon weapon to a human child. Abruptly, her understanding of their relationship dynamic totally shifted.

She didn’t need to see an aura to know _exactly_ what was going through the demon’s mind: the frames of his sunglasses were now oversized hearts, the dark lenses blushing a vibrant pink. She coughed to catch his attention, and ostentatiously tapped her own tortoise-shell glasses. He startled and pulled off the shades, his face turning nearly as red as his hair.

It suddenly occurred to her that when Crowley called his partner “Angel”, he wasn’t referring to his surname. She wondered if the other toon knew. She’d bet her life that he didn’t.

The ginger demon cleared his throat awkwardly. “You, ah, _know_ Pepper, Aziraphale? And … and the others.”

“Of course I know the Them,” the angel said crisply. “Delightful children. _They_ like my magic tricks.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. _She_ wanted you to thwart my influence.”

“Not at all!” Aziraphale said, indignant. “She may have mentioned your interest, but I just … I wanted to see for myself, that’s all. Tracy thought that it would be good for the children to be exposed to a variety of … to find some balance.”

“Wait a minute,” Anathema interrupted. “These are the street rats that you’ve been busy corrupting? The ones you’ve been stealing for?”

“You can’t starve _kids_ ,” Crowley objected. “If She didn’t want people to eat from it, why put a fruit tree in the middle of a garden, anyway?”

“With a great honking wall around it? Might as well be a sign saying, _Don’t Touch_ ,” the detective said skeptically. “And what about teaching them to lie and cheat?”

He sighed. “It’s not like that, okay? It’s a hard, cruel world out there. If it were up to Her, she’d keep them all sheltered and penned in, just like her garden. Only allowing them how to be dutiful and grateful and obedient. I can’t see what’s so bad about knowing both good and evil, anyways. I just wanted to give them _options_.” 

“Hmm,” Anathema said. “And the young technicians, camera operators, and so forth? That you’ve been luring into your clutches?”

The demon leapt to his feet, snarling. “Don’t you say a _word_ against my Hellspawn, Detective Girl. I am teaching them what they need to know to be a success. Like Lucifer did for me. I’m, whatchacallit, _paying it forward_. And they’re going to rule this world someday, just you see if they don’t.”

She glanced over to the angel toon for corroboration. It had already become abundantly clear that he couldn’t keep from showing everything he was thinking on his face. What she saw was not what she had expected, however. Seated with his back to the demon, Aziraphale was looking down, pale eyelashes fluttering, his tender smile positively radiant. His hands were pressed tightly against his chest, as if to keep his heart from simply exploding out of his body—possibly literally, he _was_ a toon, after all.

_Oh, for … Agnes, what am I supposed to do with these lovesick maroons?_ Anathema thought in disgust. _What a pair of idiots_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **If you don’t want depressing Real History mixed with a lighthearted fic, feel free to skip this bit.**
> 
> It would be shameful to compare the fictional travails of imaginary characters to the real-life suffering of actual people. But it’s impossible for anyone who knows anything about the sad history of racial oppression in the United States and watches the _Roger Rabbit_ film to miss that the word “toon” is an obvious rhyme and analogue for a hateful racial slur; which in turn brings up the entire complicated history of African-American participation in the entertainment industry. On the one hand, it was a creative outlet and source of economic independence, empowerment, representation, and justifiable pride for thousands of people; on the other hand, minstrelsy and its successors (down to the present day) perpetuate and reinforce harmful stereotypes and appalling racial caricatures.
> 
> I am by no means an expert on this topic, but I couldn’t not allude to it either. It starts to become a plot point in this chapter, but please be advised I _vastly_ over-simplify the issues involved. If you’d like to read more, there are worse places to start than here: https://www.ferris.edu/jimcrow/coon/


	6. Nursing The Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: _Aziraphale slapped his hat on top of his head and hurriedly straightened his bowtie. “What are we waiting for, my dear? Lead on to your proposed refuge.”_
> 
> Anathema takes the toons to the diner to hide out. Crowley runs into some old friends. Aziraphale runs into some new enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Alcohol, cursing, abuse of the legal system.
> 
> General Warning: this chapter is possibly the most self-indulgent thing I have ever written.

“All right!” Anathema clapped her hands together once, loudly. “We’ve got to find a better place to hide you two.”

Aziraphale shook his head, a rather un-angelic mulish expression on his face. “I concede that this so-called ‘ _Toon_ _Patrol_ ’ is … less than professional in their methods. Nonetheless, I still believe that, ah, _going on the lam_ —do I have that expression correct?—is tantamount to admitting wrongdoing. And that I shall not do.”

_Oh, for the love of_ … Anathema paused on that thought. _Love_. She grinned like a fox. “Crowley, go get us a cab, will you?”

The demon toon perked up. “I can do better than a mere _cab_. Why don’t I—”

“No! Absolutely not!” Aziraphale interjected. 

“But angel…” Crowley sounded bereft. Anathema was mildly intrigued; she didn’t know what he wanted, but it was interesting to learn that demons could _pout_.

“Out of the question!” The angel toon said sternly. “It has surely not escaped your notice that Miss Device does not … care for toons. Do you really think it will improve her opinion to subject her to your … your … _maniacal vehicle_?”

“No insulting my baby girl, Aziraphale,” the demon said. “But _fine_. You two don’t deserve her anyhow.” He left the office, ostentatiously stomping down the stairs.

“Listen, Aziraphale,” the detective said in a low voice. “I get that you don’t want to hide. I respect that. But… You’ve heard about Holy Water?”

The toon shivered in answer.

“Exactly,” she continued. “I’ve _seen_ what that gunk does to toons. And Doomsday won’t hesitate to use it.”

Aziraphale lifted his chin. “I’m not afraid.”

“And it’s your right to take that chance,” she said, choosing not to call out the obvious lie. “But are you willing to risk your, um, screen partner?”

The angel turned as white as his hair. “You don’t think…”

“I saw Doomsday use Holy Water on a toon for the crime of scuffing his shoes,” Anathema twisted the knife. What d’you think he’ll do to Crowley, if he stands in his way?”

Aziraphale slapped his hat on top of his head and hurriedly straightened his bowtie. “What are we waiting for, my dear? Lead on to your proposed refuge.”

<+>X<+>

“Your idea of a good hiding place is a public _diner_?” Crowley groused.

“Excellent notion, my dear girl!” Aziraphale beamed. “I confess that I have been feeling a tad peckish. A pot of tea, some sandwiches, perhaps a cake or two, before cloistering ourselves, would absolutely hit the spot!”

Anathema ignored them both as she led them up to the counter, hoping that Newt would be free. She cursed under her breath as she saw Hastur and Ligur camped out on their customary stools. 

“Well, look who’s here!” Hastur called out, a decided edge to his words. “If it ain’t Mister Slick!”

“Flash bastard,” added a surly Ligur.

She cocked a puzzled eyebrow, then realized that they were staring past her. She turned around to see Crowley standing awkwardly, shoulders hunched, tips of his fingers jammed into his pockets. “Er. Hi guys,” he said, sounding unexpectedly abashed.

Her jaw dropped. “You know them?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “We go back.”

“Maybe?” Hastur raised his voice. “Shall we recount the deeds of those days?”

Crowley winced.

“We had an _act_ ,” Hastur told the entire room. “My frogs would sing.”

“My chameleons,” Ligur said, “would change colour in time with the music.”

“It was a thing of beauty,” Hastur told his partner earnestly. 

Ligur nodded. “And _he_ would dance.”

“ _Crowley_ would?” Aziraphale asked, shocked. “But demons can’t dance. Or,” he corrected himself, “at least not very well.”

“Nah,” Hastur agreed. “But _snakes_ can.”

“All coily and slithery,” Ligur said wistfully. “Brought the house down, ev’ry time.”

“My _dear_ ,” the angel said, turning imploring eyes to the other toon. “I insist upon a demonstration.”

“Was a long time ago, angel,” Crowley demurred, a spot of colour high upon his cheeks.

“Got booked for the Orpheum circuit,” Hastur reminisced. “Headed for the big time. Then _he_ ,” nodding at Crowley, “got a call from Acme.”

“Wanted to try him on the silver screen,” Ligur sneered.

“Pair him up with some posh angel,” Hastur grunted. “That you?” he asked Aziraphale.

“Er,” the white-haired toon answered. He gave a little half-hearted wave.

“Yeah, well,” the demon said. “Great catching up, guys. Must do this again soon.”

“Hastur! Ligur!” Newt, bless him, entered from the back room in a spectacular display of timing. (It must have been a total accident, Anathema mused, since he had certainly never showed any such gift before.) “Get those critters out of here! Do you want to bring the health inspectors down on me?”

“Aww,” Ligur pleaded. “It’s kinda cold out there this morning. Do we hafta?”

“You _know_ you’re not allowed to bring your lizards in here!”

Unexpectedly, it was Aziraphale who raised an objection. “These dear things aren’t _lizards_ , my boy,” he tutted, “they’re _amphibians_ , and very handsome ones, too.” He crouched down to chirrup at the cage of frogs by Hastur’s feet. The frogs cheeped back, in a rather pretty-sounding chorus. “Oh, my,” he breathed. 

“Chameleons are lizards,” Ligur put in, sounding jealous.

“Of course they are!” the angel toon agreed. He stroked a finger across the wire front of the cage. One of the reptiles inside gave his finger a tentative lick. “May I?”

“Sure,” Ligur agreed. He unhooked the door to the cage, pulled a large lizard out, and placed it in Aziraphale’s hands. “They’re kinda sluggish this morning, don’t know if…”

“Look at you, so lovely and clever,” the angel crooned. The chameleon resting in his palms suddenly sported a tartan pattern, all blue and cream and gold. “And so _stylish_!”

“Uh,” Ligur said. “I don’t think they’re supposed to be able to do that.”

Aziraphale ignored him, showing the resplendent lizard to Hastur’s frogs. They peeped melodiously. He chirped back.

Hastur cleared his throat. “Hey, Angel. If you ever get tired of just standing in front of a camera, we’d be happy to work you into the act. On, um, a trial basis. I mean.”

Beneath the counter, Aziraphale was beginning to warble “ _Oh frogzy bugz_ _and birdzy bugz and liddle dogzy dliver…_ ” while Hastur’s frogs piped backup harmonies.

Anathema noticed that Crowley’s sunglasses were beginning to blush pink again, and discreetly kicked him in the ankle. He startled, and they returned to their normal chthonic hue. “Fuck off,” he told Hastur and Ligur, but with remarkable little malice. “He can do better than your shoddy song-and-slither act. He’s making real bank onscreen.”

Ligur snorted. “’Course he is. He’s a _toon_. Gets paid for just … just _being_. All twinkly and angel-like.”

“Not like that for humans,” Hastur said. “Could devote years ta polishing your schtick, and nobody cares. No respect for old-fashioned craftsmanship.”

“Quite right!” Aziraphale agreed emphatically. “Audiences these days are terribly shallow. All they want is the same thing over and over. _Chase, chase. Smite, smite_. No nuance.”

“I dunno,” said Ligur, with the attitude of one determined to be fair. “Some of your early films were pretty good. _Knighty-Knight_ had some funny bits. Also, your fluffy cloak was the bee’s knees.”

“Why, thank you,” the angel said, blushing. “That was a nice costume, wasn’t it? Not as delightful as all the lace and frills in _A Tale of Two Toons_ , but…”

“That was the one with the pink shoes, right?” Hastur smacked the counter. “That was the _best_! With the big head-cutting machine an’ all.”

“I was in both of those films _too_ , y’know,” Crowley butted in, rather grumpily.

“Yeah, but you was just the, wotsit, _antagonist_ ,” Hastur noted. 

“No character arc,” Ligur agreed. “Not like Aziraphale. _There_ was a proper hero’s journey. Gave me chills, it did, the way he _overcame his inner demons_ by smiting the outer one.”

“That would be _you_ ,” Hastur kindly explained.

“I have to admit, dear fellow, those weren’t your _best_ work,” Aziraphale added. “You were still getting a feel for the character, I believe.”

The three of them smiled at each other in perfect charity. Crowley sulked.

Anathema, who had been consulting with Newt, eyed the quartet with some concern, but decided not to ask. She twirled a set of keys around on one index finger. “Got a place to stash you two.”

“Oh.” The angel toon looked crestfallen. “Are you sure that we cannot …? We have been having the most _interesting_ conversation. These gentlemen have evidently thought very deeply about their art.” 

“S’all right, Aziraphale.” Hastur leaned over and _actually patted his arm_. “We’re almost always here. We can chat some more anytime.” 

Anathema met Crowley’s eyes, for once in accord. The demon toon put his hands around his own throat and mimed gagging.

Once they had slid behind the cunningly-disguised entrance to the Prohibition-era rotgut room, however, Aziraphale looked just as disgusted. He balled his fists on his hips and shook his head as he surveyed the peeling plaster walls and few pieces of shabby furniture, stained and torn with stuffing bursting out. “No, no, this won’t do at all.”

The demon toon leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Angel, it’s a hideout, not the bloody dining room at the Ritz.”

The other pursed his lips. “I have _standards_ , you know.” He snapped his fingers.

To Anathema’s astonishment, the sofa and armchairs were immediately covered with clean, comfortable-looking beige upholstery and soft tartan pillows. A low table appeared between them, equipped with an assortment of glasses and mugs and small plates. A worn but elegant Persian-style rug unrolled beneath the whole. Aziraphale sighed with satisfaction.

“How…” she began, but Crowley drowned her out.

“Fine!” he proclaimed, throwing his arms about in exasperation. “I’ll just, dunno, huddle on the floor in the corner. Don’t mind me.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, you fussy fiend,” the angel chided.

“I’m not sitting on _tartan_!”

Aziraphale huffed, but snapped his fingers again. The sofa was transformed to sleek black leather. Crowley grinned, and immediately sprawled upon it, skinny limbs somehow improbably claiming every square inch.

“Miss Device?” The angel politely waved her to one of the armchairs, before settling himself in the other. She eyed it suspiciously, then decided to just roll with it. Trying to figure out how toons did what they did was a sucker’s game.

Newt bustled in, bearing a tray covered with plates and a coffeepot. “Sorry, we don’t have a lot of call for tea here,” he apologized. “But I hoped cocoa might…” He set a mug stuffed with chocolate and marshmallows in front of Aziraphale.

The toon’s eyebrows shot up, and he gently lifted the mug in both hands. Crowley leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the angel’s face. Aziraphale sniffed delicately, then sipped. 

And _moaned_.

Newt blushed purple.

Aziraphale turned his attention to the plates, picking one featuring a grilled cheese sandwich. He took a small bite, closed his eyes, and shivered. “Simply scrumptious.”

“It’s just a sandwich …” Newt began modestly, but the toon cut him off.

“Nonsense! Just _look_ at this! The exquisite golden brown, the crispness of the surface – you must have used real butter, dear boy, oleo wouldn’t achieve this effect – with just a hint of char on the crust! And the filling; moist, soft, flavourful … did you add a smidgeon of dry mustard? Ah, I thought so … but not at all sticky or gooey. It is in the most deceptively simple of creations that the true artist is revealed.” Aziraphale took another bite, and wiggled with delight. “My boy, I _salute_ you.”

Newt stammered at this flood of praise. Anathema gave serious thought to actually _kissing_ the angel.

“All very well,” Crowley drawled, “but where’s the hooch?”

“What?” Newt looked baffled.

“Hooch. Sheepdip. Sauce.” The fry cook kept shaking his head. “Y’know. _Booze_. Thought y’said this place was a speakeasy.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Demon—”

“Crowley.”

“Mr. Crowley, but that was decades ago. We don’t even have a liquor license.”

“Pity,” said Aziraphale, who had been steadily working his way through the tray of food. “It’s been a dreadfully long day, and a nightcap would be pleasant.” He looked over at the demon, with large, hopeful eyes.

Behind the dark glasses, there was a definite eyeroll. “Very well, angel, I’ll see what I can find.” Crowley put his fingers to his temples, then pointed towards an unremarkable corner of the wall. “There.”

Newt and Anathema looked where he was pointing, then at each other. Aziraphale gave another happy wiggle.

The demon scowled. “C’mon, Sandwich Boy, you heard the angel. Get busy!” 

“Um. With what?”

“Humans… Gotta do _everything_ myself.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and the plaster unrolled up the wall, rather like a window shade, revealing a section that clearly had been bricked up at a later date. Another snap, and the newer bricks detached themselves, stacking themselves neatly on the floor with a soft _plink-plink-plink_. The ginger toon sauntered over to peer into the shadowy nook now revealed. “Hey, Aziraphale, check this out.”

The angel was quick to stand beside him. “Mostly California vintages, of course, but … Châteauneuf du Pape, excellent; and oh, my, I do believe there are some bottles of Château d’Yquem…”

“Lookie here, some proper single malts. Laphroig, that’s me, and Glenmorangie for you, angel …” 

“Anathema,” Newt said softly, eyes still fixed on the enraptured toons, “I … can’t with all this right now. I’ve got to get back to work. Can you, well, keep them from doing anything too crazy?”

“You’re a _brick_ , Newt.” Anathema leaned in and gave him a quick fierce hug. “I’ll do my absolute best.” She waited until she could hear the secret door click behind him; then joined the others in surveying the quite extraordinary amounts of contraband alcohol that had been stashed and forgotten. “See anything that looks like a decent bourbon?”

<+>X<+>

“Sooooooo…” Anathema slurred. The idea had been to get those toons drunk enough to get some proper answers out of them, not to get sloshed herself. She hadn’t reckoned on their astonishing capacity for liquor (nor on the appeal of some decent Burks’ after too many years of bottom-label swill.). “Did Acme ever give you ‘nother sword, ‘Ziraphale?”

The angel toon swirled his wineglass, apparently fascinated by the ruby-red color. “In fact, She did not. She said that I should wait until I was ready to wield it.”

“Whasssss that even mean?” Crowley asked. Anathema would have been more interested in the way that he could apparently drink his Scotch whisky while draping his feet across the back of the sofa and resting his head on the floor, all without spilling a single drop, if she hadn’t already decided to stop thinking too hard about toon physics. “Ssseeemed happy ‘nuff to use the thing on _me_.’

“I’m sure that I have no idea,” Aziraphale sniffed. “I did ask, but Mother started … _pushing_ me on, well, my personal choices.” His eyes darted quickly to the toon lounging upside down. “I told Her to mind Her own business.” He scrubbed at his at his face and sounded a little maudlin. “I’m afraid that’s the last thing that I ever said to Her.”

The demon tilted his head so he could look at the other. “Prob’ly better than the last thing that _I_ said, angel.”

“Well, _obviously_.”

“ _Obvioushly_ ,” Crowley mimicked, in what was a rather poor copy of Aziraphale’s poshly enunciated catchphrase.

“Tha’s ‘nother thing,” Anathema mused. “This is Cali-, Califa-, _L.A._ Why so many toons got English accents, ennyhoo?”

“‘M not English, ‘m _Scottish_!” Crowley sat straight up in indignation.

At the exact same moment, Aziraphale said “ _Welsh_ , to be strictly accurate.” 

They both looked at each other, and nodded in rare agreement.

The demon expanded on the point, waving his tumbler about. “S like any other work. You go where the jobs are, where the money is. Tha’sss Toontown, right now.”

“But the war’s _over_.” Anathema felt very sure about this particular fact. “You could go back, if you wanted. Wouldn’t you rather be doing, I dunno, Shakespeare?”

“I _did_ Shakespeare.” The cream-coloured toon noted proudly. “Er. Technically.” 

“ _Buck Up, Hamlet!_ was _not_ Shakespeare, angel.” 

“Oh, _you_. You’re just dismissive because you had to wear that dreadful little chinbeard.” 

“ _Oi_!”

Their bickering was abruptly cut off by a loud harsh buzz.

“Tha’s … that’s Newt’s signal.” Anathema slapped her own cheeks a couple of times, forcing herself to sober up. “Someone must have come into the diner.” She crossed the room to the unlatch the peephole her boyfriend had demonstrated earlier.

Doomsday. _Crap_. And the Toon Patrol. _Crappity-crap-crap._

She watched Raven and Chalky carefully drag in a familiar steel barrel. She watched the judge placed neat stacks of cash, one after the other, on the lunch counter. She watched Hastur follow his hands avidly, mentally adding up the total. She watched Ligur lick his lips. She watched Newt slowly drift away from the panic buzzer he had just pressed, angling his back to cover the entrance to the hidden room.

“One thousand dollars,” Doomsday announced slowly. He tapped the bills with the tip of his cane. “I’m looking for an angel.” 

Hastur leaned back against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. “I seen an angel,” he drawled.

Newt sucked in a worried breath. Behind the wall, Anathema cursed silently. Crowley hissed. Aziraphale wrung his hands together, looking ashamed.

Doomsday glided closer. “Where?”

“Right here.” Hastur reached over and pulled an embarrassed Ligur close against his side, giving him a smack on the cheek. “Been my sweet angel for years, aintcha, babe?”

Newt huffed in relief. Aziraphale’s lips twitched slightly, in a smug fashion..

“Very … romantic.” Doomsday flicked a smile like a switchblade. He circled around the counter, ignoring Newt’s stammered objections. Reaching a blank spot, he rapped on it with his cane. (Anathema reflexively flinched, as those blows came very near to where her forehead rested.) “Here, I think. Chalky?”

The most slovenly member of the Toon Patrol shuffled beside him. From a pocket they pulled a … small pot of black paint? They dipped a thumb inside, and began to smear something onto the wall.

Anathema pulled away from the peephole to glance at the two toons. “He’s gone completely _nuts_ …” she started to say, when she noticed that Aziraphale became suddenly alert, like a hunting dog catching a scent. 

“It’s a _door_ ,” he whispered. Beside him, Crowley was equally tense. _What?_

In the diner, Newt and the customers watched with puzzlement as Chalky painted a tall, pointed arch on the wall, then bisected with a shaky line from top to bottom. Two scribbled circles halfway up could have been interpreted as doorknobs, if the viewer was generous.

In the secret room, the angel was gripping his seat with both hands, as if to anchor himself in place. “It’s a _church_ door,” he gritted out between clenched teeth. The demon patted his shoulder with shaky fingers. “Sssssteady on, angel.”

Anathema returned to the peephole to see the judge remove the whistle from beneath his collar. Once again he played a familiar-sounding set of four notes, but a different melody this time: sweet, almost celestial, ascending towards a climax that felt achingly unfinished.

_Huh_. She checked on the toons. Crowley was still tense, jaw clenched, but seemed to be holding up well enough against whatever-it-was. Aziraphale …

Aziraphale was _twitching_.

She could hear that lilting motif again. The angel toon groaned, burying his face in his hands. The demon had placed both hands on the other’s shoulders, pushing down, obviously straining to hold him in place.

“Wagner.” Aziraphale whispered. “Mendelssohn. Mahler.” The tune repeated. He flinched violently.

“Bruckner and Scriabin and practically every Romantic composer, _fine_ ,” Crowley growled in return. “They already took care of it, angel. _You_ don’t need to.”

Anathema went back to her surveillance. Doomsday had dropped the whistle, and was now leaning close to the wall, almost affectionately. He began to croon, in a voice both broken and beautiful, like the ruins of a medieval monastery. “A – men. A – men.” Then, those same ascending four notes: “A – a – a – a - …”

There was a radiant pale-blue-and-cream blur to her left, then the painted doors swung smoothly open like a wedding chapel. Aziraphale emerged, his ethereal baritone voice harmonizing with itself to resolve the final, ecstatic tonic chord: “ … - MEN!!”

Rough red and black hands seized his wings where they emerged from his shoulder blades.

The detective and the demon peered through the brand new hole in the wall. “ _Fuuuuuuuuuck_ ,” muttered Crowley.

Anathema couldn’t disagree.

The angelic toon writhed and struggled with all his considerable strength to get free from Scarlet’s and Raven’s grasp. Even with Chalky’s assistance, he nearly got free; until the Toon Patrol leader grabbed him by the collar. Once Azrael had caught hold of someone, escaping was out of the question.

The judge used his cane to pry the lid off the barrel of Holy Water. Poisoned-apple-green fumes rose from the surface, and the members of the Toon Patrol stepped back. Even the humans in the diner instinctively flinched away….

… Except for Newt. Anathema gasped as her sweet, diffident, nervous boyfriend walked with determination around the counter to stand between Aziraphale and the Holy Water. He faced Doomsday and said, in his quiet way, “Doesn’t he get a trial? You know, innocent until proven guilty and all that?”

The judge barked out a brief laugh. “Very well.” He turned to the still-wriggling toon. “Aziraphale Angel, you have been accused of the willful murder of Frances Acme. How do you plead?”

“Well, _really_. This is _most_ irregular,” Aziraphale complained. “Not guilty, as you very well know.”

Doomsday flung out both arms to embrace all the occupants of the building. “Your verdict, gentlebeings of the jury?”

Most of the human customers just looked back in confusion, but Hastur and Ligur both grunted, “Not guilty.” Anathema and Newt and Crowley said the same more emphatically, the demon adding a muttered “you _cunt_.” Scarlet and Raven, however, shouted out “GUILTY!” in unison, Chalky holding up both hands with definite thumbs-down.

“Excellent. As the duly elected judge of this district, I believe I hear a unanimous _guilty_ verdict.” Doomsday clapped his hands. “Sergeant, proceed with the execution.”

“ _Do something!_ ” Anathema hissed at Crowley. He looked at her, panicked, then seemed to collect himself. He ran for the door of the diner.

The detective tried not to be disappointed. She had been sure that the demon truly cared about Aziraphale; but when it came right down to it, he was a _toon_ , and they were shallow creatures, incapable of real feelings.

Crowley flung the door open, and leaned out into the street. “ _I can’t give you anything but love, baby! That’s the only thing I’ve plenty of, baby!_ ” he bellowed, in a gravelly tone that was not entirely unmusical. He slammed the door and whirled around, eyes wild.

_He’s lost it. Crazy as the six of diamonds_ , Anathema thought sadly.

The demon catapulted himself at the skeleton who had Aziraphale in his custody. With a strangled “ _NNGGYYYYAHHHH!_ ” he somersaulted both toons over the counter and onto the floor next to grill. “Detective Girl, Sandwich Boy, _get back_!” he shouted …

… just as there was the most horrific shuddering shattering sound, and a monstrous black behemoth of a toon automobile came crashing through the front window, a familiar (if incongruously languid) song blaring from the radio, “ _Oh, my heart belongs to Daddy, so I simply couldn't be bad_ …” For a moment it seemed as if the car would just keep going, smashing through the counter, the grill, the back room, all the way through to the alley on the other side; but then it gracelessly halted, rolling to a stop. The enormous front bumper nudged the barrel of Holy Water …

… which teetered for an interminable minute, finally toppling over to flood the front section of the diner. Hastur yelped, and he and Ligur simultaneously dove for the cages before scrambling atop the counter, frogs and lizards safely clutched to their chests. Doomsday and the Toon Patrol skipped backwards, Raven with a terrified screech.

Silence.

Then a head of blazing red hair, followed by horns and a pair of golden-yellow eyes peeked over the counter. “Baby girl, you are the _best_ ,” Crowley crooned. “Daddy is _so_ proud.”

The car radio flipped over to a melancholic tune. “ _Oh, where is my angel eyes? 'Scuse me while I disappear_.” 

The demonic toon laughed. “Hear that, Aziraphale? Sounds like you’ve been missed.”

A head of fluffy white curls popped up next to his. “Ah. Is that Bentley?” He sounded only mildly curious, not like someone who had just been in imminent danger of complete discorporation. “Splendid timing, my dear girl.”

Crowley grabbed his hat and sunglasses, and held out his hand. “Fly me over that mess on the floor, angel. We need to make like trees in springtime …”

“… and leave, yes, I think you may be right. One moment.” Aziraphale gathered up his own hat, and took the opportunity to tuck an entire cakestand (cakes included) into his coat pocket. “Leave a generous tip for young Newton, will you, dear?”

“Wait, what … _wait_.” Anathema tried to sort out her scrambled thoughts. “Where are you going?”

“Great big universe out there, Detective Girl. We’re off to the stars.” Crowley turned slightly pink as the angel easily swung him up into his arms and fluttered over to the four-wheeled toon, setting the demon down gently on a dry spot. “ _Ngk_. Get in, angel. Next stop, Alpha Centauri!”

The … _Bentley_? (Anathema knew next to nothing about automobiles, preferring her bicycle when she could, and taxicabs when she couldn’t) backed out of the diner with a squeal of tires, “Stairway to the Stars” blasting from the radio.

“What are you standing around for, like a pack of idiots?” Doomsday snapped to the Toon Patrol. “Go after them!” They all scurried out, carefully skirting the edge of the Holy Water puddle. 

Newt wiped his hands on his apron, ruefully surveying the wreckage of the diner. “Well. That was a Thing.”

“Funny old world,” Ligur agreed.

“Lighten up,” Hastur admonished. “That was _fun_.” He waved at Newt cheerfully. “See ya around. C’mon, Ligur.” 

Anathema noticed that Hastur casually scooped up Doomsday’s cash from the counter before they left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea why this fic is so full of musical references. Apparently my backbrain latched onto the whole “Looney Tunes” motif.
> 
> Anyhow, the song that Aziraphale sings to Hastur’s frogs is the seldom-heard (for good reason) second verse to the novelty tune “Mairzy Doats.” I haven’t been able to find a recording including it, but you can hear the original here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrZGC7tsc7M
> 
> The melody that Doomsday uses to flush out Aziraphale is the gorgeous “Dresden Amen” [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1I4LJ0ikm8w], which is used in tons of compositions to signify redemption, grace, and triumph, of both sacred and secular natures. There’s a great short essay on it here, [https://thelistenersclub.com/2017/04/17/the-power-of-six-notes-exploring-the-dresden-amen/] with links to all sorts of instances.
> 
> To hear it unresolved would leave _me_ twitching on the floor. I can’t imagine what it would do to Aziraphale.
> 
> Since unfortunately for this fic, Queen had as yet no significant discography in 1947, it turns out that Crowley and the Bentley communicate entirely in jazz standards. The links to the Bentley’s songs are all covers by Ella Fitzgerald, because of course:
> 
> “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love, Baby” (sung by Lady Day) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fc_60I9u7fg
> 
> “My Heart Belongs To Daddy” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qD9_hnDJiGA
> 
> “Angel Eyes” (yes, the Bentley totally ships it) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VBz1rXoSP9o
> 
> “Stairway to the Stars” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z9zsf7reJTo


	7. Every Part By Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“C’mon. Tell me what’s wrong.”_  
>  _She went to lean against him instead. “It’s just … ugh. I’m so horrible. I dragged you into this even though you warned me not to, and then those idiots,_ my _idiots I guess, trashed this place, and then they just ditched me, and I don’t know what to do…”_
> 
> Anathema experiences a bit of catharsis, and uncovers Hornblower’s secret.
> 
> It does not go well for the latter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for missing the last update, and for the short-ish chapter. The day job has been hella stressful recently. At least there is plenty of plot and _sturm-und-drang_ here; alas, this is not a chipper chapter.  
> CW: Swearing, self-hatred, self-blame, victim-blaming, violence, extreme body modifications, suicide (technically), murder, fire, death by fire.

Anathema sighed, and rubbed her temples. After that whole disaster at the diner, she had craved nothing more than solitude and herbal tea and the comfort of curling up with her Great-Aunt’s _Guide_ for wisdom and advice. Agnes, however, was being even more cryptic than usual:

_He is notte what he says he is. Neither is anyone else. Neither are you._

She had turned that one over and over in her mind, but couldn’t get anywhere. The nagging questions followed her even into her dreams: Who was _he_? Angel? Crowley? Doomsday? Someone else? _Everybody_ else? And why was Agnes dragging _her_ into it? She knew who she was just _fine_ , thank you. She was Anathema Device: private investigator, viewer of auras, smart cookie, tough dame. She didn’t need to know anything more.

It was no wonder that she woke up even grumpier than usual. Going into the kitchenette and being reminded that her coffeepot was broken (freaking _toons_ ) was just the frosting on her cupcake. She threw the wreckage into the garbage and went out for coffee. _Not_ to Newt’s place, though; she’d rather pay for inferior coffee than face him after her … not her _clients_ , certainly not her _friends_ , but okay, it was probably her fault that the diner got wrecked, just as Newt was getting secure in his job…

Anathema Device was also an _awful_ girlfriend.

Assuming she was _still_ Newt’s girlfriend, which right now didn’t seem too probable.

The detective stomped up the stairs to the agency, only to find someone on the landing. _Again_. At least this time it was someone she knew and liked. “Hi, Mr. Lesley,” she greeted the postman, trying (and mostly failing) to sound like someone who didn’t have fugitive clients, a broken heart, and a lingering hangover.

“Morning, Miss Anathema,” he answered.

“Anything for me besides the usual bills?” she teased. It really wasn’t in her character to casually chat with, well, _anybody_ , but Great-Aunt Agnes had pressed upon her the importance of building up a friendly relationship with local mail carriers, news agents, bus drivers, and the like. They saw everything, they _noticed_ everything, and they could often be persuaded to share what they had observed.

(The fact that Lesley was a gentle, courteous professional with a pure aura of sky blue and saffron had nothing to do with it.)

“Not for me to say, miss,” he said, handing over a stack of ominous white envelopes, and one intriguing large beige one. ‘But look for yourself.”

Anathema shoved the bills into her bag and scanned the last. It bore a return address from an instant photo developing outfit. “Oh, Newt, you are a _doll_!” She tore open the flap and hurriedly scanned the contents.

“He seems like a very nice young man,” Lesley agreed. He stared pointedly at the to-go cup in her hand. “I do hope that you two are still happy together.”

 _Stupid mailmen,_ noticing _everything, feeling free to comment on what they observe…_

“Yeah, me too, hope that, I mean,” she answered awkwardly. “I don’t think that he’s all that .. ecstatic about me right now.” 

The mail carrier shrugged. “Ah, well, you know how it goes. Me and my Maudie… have I ever mentioned my Maud?”

 _Only at least every other day_ , Anathema thought fondly. She just nodded.

“Well, we have had our ups and downs, you know. But over twenty years now, we’ve stayed together.”

Her traitor of a lower lip wobbled. “I don’t think that either of you ever messed up as badly as I just did.”

He looked at her seriously. “That envelope … I don’t know what it’s about, you shouldn’t tell me, but … if young Newt had managed to bungle whatever you asked him to do, you would forgive him, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course!” Anathema bristled.

Lesley smiled gently, and raised his eyebrows.

“That’s _different_!” she insisted.

“Of course, of course.” He patted her shoulder briefly. “But why don’t you just … go and see? Then, at least, you’d know.”

Anathema stared at her feet. 

“You should go now,” the mail carrier went on. “Leave early. Avoid the lunch rush.”

<+>X<+>

Anathema leaned her bicycle against the boarded-up front window and peeked through the door. She had expected the diner to be closed for repairs, but the sign was flipped to _OPEN_ , and customers were seated at the counter.

Two customers. She sighed. _Of course_.

“Annie!” Hastur waved at her. “Did you bring the angel?”

“I don’t know where they went,” she snapped, mentally adding, _you froglicking moron._

Ligur blinked at her, as sleepy-eyed as one of his chameleons. “Sure you do. The snake said. Alfalfa Center something.”

“Alpha Centauri,” Newt corrected wearily. “And I don’t think even a toon car can actually drive four and a half light years into outer space.” He paused. “Probably.”

Anathema gave him a tiny wave. The smile that ghosted across his face looked tired but genuine. She felt a little braver. “I didn’t think you’d be open.”

“What? You think our ledgers can stand a day without these two stealing sugar packets all day?” He considered her more carefully. “Hey. Joking. That’s what toon insurance is for.”

“Your boss isn’t mad at you?”

“R. P.?” Newt laughed. “He’s so ecstatic at all that high-end liquor you uncovered, he’s ready to put you on retainer. Even without insurance, it will more than cover the cost of repairs.”

“I didn’t … it wasn’t …” There it was again, that stupid wobble. “I’m so, so sorry. Dumping one of my messes on you.”

“Hastur. Ligur. Scram, guys. You’ve worn out your welcome.” They did in fact scram—there weren’t many establishments whose staff were as patient as Newt, and when he got that serious tone in his voice it was best to pay attention—although not without some grumbling and reminding Anathema to bring their new best pal back soon. In all that time, Newt didn’t let his eyes leave her face. 

He patted one of the counter stools. “C’mon. Tell me what’s wrong.”

She went to lean against him instead. “It’s just … ugh. I’m so horrible. I dragged you into this even though you warned me not to, and then those idiots, _my_ idiots I guess, trashed this place, and then they just _ditched_ me, and I don’t know what to do…”

Newt put his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. _Mmm. Nice_. “You know that it’s not your fault, right?”

“… maybe …”

“And it’s not _their_ fault either.”

She pushed away, just a bit, and blew her hair from her face. “Well …”

“It _isn’t_ ,” Newt insisted. “Assuming that they’re telling you the truth, they’re just victims of some weird vendetta. A weird _human_ vendetta. Nobody’s required to stand around and let somebody straight-up murder them.”

“But …”

“No buts. Nobody asks to be murdered.”

Without her permission, her face did something complicated, then hardened. “ _Some_ people do. Some people just walk into a situation knowing that they will be killed. No matter what it might do to … other people.”

Newt pulled her back in and held her tight. “Uh-uh. She did _not_. She wanted to keep you safe. Keep everybody safe. And if she was willing to pay for that with her life, it’s not the same as _wanting_ to.” He laid his cheek against her hair. “I mean, look at me. I’m perfectly ready to die for you, you know. But I’d much rather live for you.”

Well, _crap_. Now the lip-wobble was back in full force, and it brought its friends the eye-leaking and the nose-running and soon Anathema had buried her face in Newt’s shoulder and was just _bawling_ , and he stood there and held her and awkwardly patted her back until she had howled into his shirt all her anger and confusion and grief, and was reduced to making gross snuffly noises, and then he gave her a glass of water and a handful of paper napkins and kissed her, and what was _wrong_ with him, didn’t he have any taste at all?

Apparently not, because after she drank her water and blew her nose and scrubbed at her face, he smiled at her. “I’m pretty sure that’s not what you came her for, though. I’ll get you some coffee, and you can tell me about it.”

By the time he returned with the mug and saucer, Anathema had managed to slip back into her favourite trench-coated, dark-knight-of-the-dark-night persona, which she rather suspected had been his intent. She had also pulled out the envelope of photographs, which she had spread out over the countertop and was perusing carefully. 

He leaned over, tilting his head to try and see them right side up. “Anything?”

“Ehh…” She separated them into two stacks: one containing repeated shots of a room warm with golden light, an endtable piled high with books and papers, and the sleeve of an old-fashioned beige frockcoat resting on the arm of a brocaded sofa; the other a dimly-lit street, and the shadowy forms of a lanky, black-suited figure and a group of children. “Nothing useful, I don’t think. Unless … hand me back that water glass, will you?”

She used the makeshift magnifying lens to more closely examine images of the papers on the endtable. (The detective did of course own a real magnifying glass, a very fine one, a gift from her Great-Aunt upon being formally hired into the Agency. It currently resided in the top drawer of her desk, still sheathed in its soft leather case, quite obviously too precious to risk in actual use.) It was blurry, but she thought she could make out the large-type Roman capitals ABLE PLA and beneath them, in script, _s Writte_. 

She put the glass aside, and tapped her teeth thoughtfully. Then she picked up the second stack of pictures and showed them to Newt. “See that? In the upper right corner? What do you think that is?”

He frowned. “Maybe the corner of the roof next door? Or the edge of an awning?”

“Maybe. But look, it’s changing size and shape through the sequence of photos. Maybe a kite, flying away? But at that time of night?”

Newt shrugged. “Do you think it’s important?”

“Probably not.” She sighed. “But it’s gonna bug me until I figure it out.”

He smiled at her, almost as sunny as the angel. “That’s because you’re you. And I’m very glad of it.”

She grinned back. “Honestly? Me too. But not as glad as I am that you’re _you_. A wonder and a marvel.” Newt blushed, just a bit, and she laughed. “Right now, though, I’ve gotta go see a man about a plan. You still got that camera I left with you?”

<+>X<+>

This time, Gabriel Hornblower dismissed Sandy as soon as they walked into his office. The detective assumed that he didn’t want any witnesses to their conversation, which made her feel a little more hopeful that she’d be able to uncover something useful. The overhead fan creaked futilely against the midday heat, and the ostentatious window was cracked open to catch a non-existent breeze.

Anathema placed the camera on studio head’s pristine desk, then leaned back against the wall to watch him, arms folded.

“Miss Device. Thank you for returning my property. I suppose it’s too much to hope that you actually fulfilled the task I contracted with you?”

“I got pictures, yeah.” Anathema didn’t move. She kept her gaze steady.

Hornblower blew out an exaggerated sigh. “If you think you can pressure me into paying a higher price, you are badly mistaken. Aziraphale Angel is in _far_ more trouble than even I expected, and I don’t imagine that any pictures of him—”

“The photos of Angel are worthless. They don’t show anything.” Anathema let everything that she didn’t say fill the silence of the office. Then she added, as if she just happened to remember, “I did take pictures of other things that night.” 

The producer stilled, then blustered, “I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“I have it on excellent authority,” the detective went on, “that you are not what you say you are.” She raised a meaningful eyebrow.

“WHO TOLD YOU?” Hornblower thundered. 

Anathema was startled. She just tossed out her Great-Aunt’s words on a gamble. She hadn’t bargained on a reaction like that.

“ _Who told you_?” he repeated, in a quieter voice, if no less stentorian. “It _couldn’t_ have been Doomsday. He’s in the same boat, if not worse. It had to have been … _She_ told you, didn’t she? I don’t know how she found out, but it had to have been …” He pressed his lips together, closed his eyes, and drew several deep breaths.

Anathema opened her mouth, then closed it. Too many questions that were too dangerous to ask, not if she didn’t want to tip her hand. Who was _she_? It couldn’t have been Acme, the entrepreneur was dead. And what boat were both Doomsday and Hornblower adrift in? The detective decided to take another risk. “ _She_ wasn’t the one whose idea it was to set up Angel. That’s all on you, Hornblower. I don’t like being played for a patsy.”

“No, no, _that_ was Doomsday!” Hornblower looked frantic. “I needed another dose, it’s getting desperate, but I couldn’t afford what he’s demanding! _He_ suggested Aziraphale, I don’t know what he wanted him for, but he said it was all in the Plan, that it has all been _written_ , and then he _laughed_ , and I … look, Miss Device, I can pay you, I can get the money, but you can’t tell anyone, _please_ , I’ll be ruined if anyone finds out I used to be a toon!”

 _What_.

“I can see why you’d want to keep that secret, yes,” Anathema scrabbled for something noncommittal to say. Anyways, it was true; it surely wouldn’t go over well with investors to find out that the head of the studio was stark staring bonkers. Except …

… except that would explain so much that had puzzled her about Hornblower. His plastic perfection. His bizarrely flat aura. If he wasn’t really human, or rather a toon somehow _transformed_ into a human … well, that would explain why he was so horrifically _bad_ at it. “So, another dose? And Doomsday wouldn’t pony up?” she fished for more.

“He didn’t tell me! Six years ago, when he approached me, he never told me that the stuff would wear off!” Hornblower now seemed convinced that he could get the detective on his side if she would just acknowledge how badly he had been wronged. “I had the looks, I had the drive, I clearly had the moxie to be, to be _more_. More than those bit parts I had been getting. Doomsday told me that he saw it, that I could be anything I wanted, if I just could stop being held back by being a damned wavering, undisciplined, ridiculous _toon_.” 

“And he gave you this potion. That turned you human.” Anathema’s thoughts were racing. “And once you could do _anything_ , anything you wanted … you decided to set up a film studio?”

Hornblower seemed to deflate. “It’s … it was all I knew how to do.” He rallied. “But I’m good at it. I’m Gabriel Fucking Hornblower, and that means something in this business.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “So. Who-all knows? I mean, Doomsday, you, me …” she trailed off significantly. She didn’t want to let the other get suspicious, but this could be crucial.

“I … I don’t know.” Hornblower slitted his eyes at her. “Miss Device, I am beginning to think we need to invite Sandy back into this conversation.” 

She tilted up her chin and called his bluff. “Go ahead. I’m sure he’d be _very_ impressed at the way you’ve … overcome your background.”

The producer glared at her, but made no other move.

Anathema tapped her index finger on his desk. “Look. Cards on the table. Blackmail is one thing, murder is quite another. You’ve got to talk to the police.”

Hornblower looked horrified.

“I … know a guy, okay?” she persisted. “He can be …” she crossed her fingers behind her back, even though the gesture was laughable against the magnitude of the forthcoming lie. “… discreet.”

“No. No.” He shook his head. “I’ll have a word with her. With both of them.” He strode over to the window and stood staring out, hands thrust deep within his pockets. “A, a temporary inconvenience. I can fight this. And I can _win._ ” 

His flat lilac aura began to ripple and … tear? Great rents in the slick plane of it, peeling off like a scab. _Ewww._ This had to be one of the most seriously disturbing things Anathema had ever witnessed. She forced herself to look away.

Which is why she didn’t see the gout of fire blast through the window and incinerate Hornblower where he stood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bye-bye, Gabriel!
> 
> Sorry for the lack of Aziraphale and Crowley; Anathema would really like to know where they are as well.
> 
> Will things go better in the next chapter? Unlikely!


	8. We’ll Hit the Heights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She didn’t need a plan. She needed backup._
> 
> Anathema finds Aziraphale and Crowley.
> 
> So do the bad guys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. Nothing like taking on one of the funniest, sweetest, fluffiest films of the last fifty years and turning it into an unending festival of angst and violence! My apologies for the late update, but this chapter is a monster.
> 
> CW: Swearing, bigotry, violence, murder, attempted murder, extreme body modifications, suicide (technically), explosions, death by fire, discorporation, fire, kidnapping. Oh, and bad poetry.  
> Once again, if I've missed anything, please let me know in the comments.  
> 

The next half hour passed in a blur. Instinctively, the detective had yanked the window open the rest of the way, and jumped the four feet to the street below, hoping to catch the murderer with a flamethrower still in his (or her?) hands. It shouldn’t be hard to find someone running around with a military-grade weapon in the middle of the day.

But the streets were deserted, except for a distant figure, running with a peculiar arachnid gait towards the entrance to Toontown. He was tall and dark and rail-thin, and Anathema felt a stab of disappointment to think that she had been so wrong in her judgment of Crowley; but unleashing that kind of hellfire was certainly fitting for a demon toon, she supposed.

Then, with a burst of shame so sharp that it literally stole her breath, she realized that, while indeed familiar, the fugitive was _too_ tall, _too_ angular, _too_ sepulchrally black without the telltale blaze of red hair to be the demon. But why would _Doomsday_ murder Hornblower? And in such an … _over-the-top_ fashion? It didn’t make sense, unless …

_He’s in the same boat, if not worse_ , Hornblower had said.

Over the past couple of days, Anathema had been reluctantly surrendering her assumptions about toons doing any sort of crazy thing for no good reason. 

But she was rapidly becoming convinced that she couldn’t put anything past a _former_ toon, desperate to hang onto the unravelling shreds of a stolen humanity.

_Think, Device, think!_ Marching into the chaos of Toontown in pursuit of a homicidal, potentially psychotic judge was far more self-destructive, and certainly less effective, than anything she had blamed her Great-Aunt for doing. She needed a plan. _What would Agnes do?_

This one she knew. This one she had read again and again. It was, after all, the very last sentence of _The Nice and Accurate Guide_ :

_"When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your forces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre."_

She didn’t need a plan. She needed _backup._

Newt? He was sweet and good and kind and smart, and she would stand in front of a flamethrower herself before she put him in any kind of danger again.

Shadwell? Sarge was more competent than he looked, certainly more competent than he talked, but he had enough crackpot ideas already; she shuddered at the idea of trying to convince him of a theory she only barely believed herself, one that stank of magic potions and miracles. 

_Miracles_.

Something an angel, even a toon angel, seemed already to be very familiar with. A toon angel, she had to admit, she trusted. _Liked_. Along with a toon demon she was positive would do literally _anything_ to help those he cared about.

A toon angel and demon who, last she saw them, claimed to be on their way to the stars.

_Stars_.

Alpha Centauri. A _binary_ star.

Oh, she was a right idiot.

The only reason Anathema didn’t slap her own face was that she was busy using both hands to hail a taxi. She didn’t even wait for it to come to a complete stop before she was yanking open the back door and clamboring in. “Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, please!”

<+>X<+>

Even though it was the early afternoon, the taxi couldn’t get her closer than a few blocks to the famous theatre. Anathema didn’t mind the walk, but she could do without the tourists gawking at the inlaid terrazzo stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

As a native, she had never paid much attention to film celebrities and glitzy cult that had been built up around them. It had never occurred to her before that while human actors were always afforded individual stars, it was more customary for toons to be honoured with double or triple stars, relegating them to being merely part of a team—it was the rare toon indeed, like Bugs or Goofy, who received solo recognition. Anathema wondered if Lucifer had his own star, from his glory days as the fairest in the cinematic firmament. She wasn’t going to try to track it down, at any rate.

And there it was: AZIRAPHALE ANGEL & CRAWLY DEMON, inscribed in bronze on the twin tiles of blue and red. They had been fortunate to receive such a high-profile spot, almost in front of the Chinese Theatre, with its iconic curved walls and enormous dragon façade. The forecourt was packed with concrete blocks displaying the handprints, footprints, sometimes even nose-prints and impressions of eyeglasses and cigars from Hollywood’s most celebrated and glamorous.

(None from toons, of course; Trigger’s hoofprints might be welcome, but Horace Horsecollar’s were decidedly not.)

She bought a ticket for the current show—she wrinkled her nose at the title of the John Wayne vehicle, _Angel and the Badman_ , just a bit _too_ spot on—and made her way into the sparsely populated auditorium. It was easy to find the fluffy white and fiery ginger heads she was seeking. They weren’t sitting side-by-side, but behind each other two seats apart; the detective rolled her eyes to think that they probably believed that they were being discreet. As if the way that Aziraphale had turned round to address the demon, one elegant hand punctuating whatever he was saying while the other scrabbled at the bottom of his bag of popcorn, and Crowley had leaned forward, elbows on the back of the seat in front of him and chin propped in his fist, gazing fixedly at the angel, wasn’t a dead giveaway.

Anathema plopped into the seat directly behind Aziraphale. “Howdy.” She leaned over to grab the last of his popcorn. 

He turned his beaming smile to her. “Miss Device. We were just thinking of you!”

“No, we weren’t.” Crowley leaned back into his seat. “ _I_ was complaining that they don’t have wine at the concessions. _You_ were blathering something about Duck Girl being cheated.” He waved at the screen, where the cartoon short was still playing, displaying Donald Duck in his nightshirt (improbably equipped with a bowtie) and his girlfriend (wife?) wringing her hands (feathers?) worriedly.

“Well, my dear boy, you must admit that it is most unfair! Not to slight Donald, of course, he is a genius in his particular niche, but his costars only receive billing when they are in an antagonistic relationship! Whilst poor Daisy, who as always turns in a subtle, nuanced performance as a loving and supportive partner, is barely mentioned in the credits. It’s just representative of so much that is _wrong_ with this industry…”

“She’s lucky to work for Walt,” Crowley objected. “He’s the only one who will allow his stars to even have steady girlfriends onscreen.” 

“ _If_ they have matching colour schemes,” the angel sniffed. “But all this is neither here nor there. Now that dear Miss Device has rejoined us,” he beamed at her, “I am sure that we can clear up this whole silly misunderstanding about murder and return our lives to normal.” He snapped his fingers, and the sounds of the film and the ambient noise from the few other members of the audience were abruptly muted.

“What took her so long, anyhow?” the other griped, sinking low into his theatre seat until his knees were above his ears. 

“Oh, you know, this and that,” Anathema said airily. “Detective stuff. Did you know that Gabriel Hornblower and Judge Doomsday both used to be toons?”

The electric effect upon her listeners was gratifying. Aziraphale’s jaw dropped as his eyes and mouth rounded into perfect circles. Crowley slid out of his seat and plopped gracelessly upon the floor.

In a (failed) attempt to regain his dignity, the demon reclined, elbows up on the seat cushion. “Bollocks,” he drawled. “Someone’s been having you on.”

She shrugged. “Hornblower told me himself. Right before Doomsday killed him.”

“Gabriel’s been _killed_?” the angel gasped again. “When? How?”

“Flamethrower. About thirty minutes ago.” Anathema winced. “Um. Condolences for your loss?”

Crowley gave a short bark of laughter. “That wanker? Good riddance. Best thing I’ve heard Doomsday ever doing, to be honest.”

“Crowley!”

“Be honest, angel, he treated you _horribly_ , even though his whole studio was kept aloft on your fluffy wings. And if you don’t care about yourself, you know that he was a cheap and petty tyrant to the crews.” The demon frowned briefly. “Beelz will miss him, though.”

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear. This is simply dreadful. But …” Aziraphale shook his head. “That shows that you must be wrong. He couldn’t have been a toon. Even if he _hid_ it, you can’t kill a toon with fire.”

“Not a toon. A _former_ toon,” Anathema explained patiently. “He said that Doomsday sold him, I dunno, some kind of magical potion. You ever hear of anything like that?”

“No, no, no, there must be some mistake,” the angel insisted. “Gabriel … I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but he _loathed_ toons. He couldn’t … And I can’t imagine what it would take to turn a toon into a human. Or _why_.”

“Makes sense to me,” Crowley drawled. “Lots of folks hate what, who, they are. Lots think that all their problems would go away if they could just be somebody or something _else_.”

Aziraphale lifted his head sharply at that. “You’re thinking of …”

“Yep.” The demon nodded. “I’d been wondering, maybe, if he had some human fans left. But it would explain a _lot_ if it was him.”

“Who? What?” Anathema looked from one to the other. Sometimes it seemed like these two spoke their own private language. Or, perhaps had only one brain cell between them. “Either of you want to share with the rest of the class?”

There was a long silence, during which it seemed the toons carried on a lively argument using only glares, grimaces, and twitching eyebrows. Eventually Crowley ran his slender fingers through his hair and sighed. “ _If_ there really is some way to transform toons into humans like you said, and _if_ Doomsday … did the thing … there’s a good chance he used to be Lucifer. Or Morningstar. Whichever.”

“But that’s not possible!” Anathema blurted out, in shock. She looked guiltily around the rest of the theatre, but apparently the angel’s little bubble of silence still held.

Aziraphale twisted fully around and patted her arm in a reassuring way. “I know what you’re thinking, dear girl, that Morningstar’s entire ideology—such as it was—revolved upon the superiority of toons to humans in every way, that he would never reject the identity he championed to embrace one he loathed. But my, er, wily adversary has an excellent understanding of psychology, and it is true that some persons who have dedicated their entire being to an extremist cause may, if sufficiently frustrated, reverse course and … boomerang, as it were, to a position equally extreme but opposite.”

“Wasn’t saying all _that_ ,” the demon shrugged. “Just thought that he seemed familiar. Not how he looked, of course, but … y’know.”

“But … even if you’re right,” the detective insisted, “Doomsday _can’t_ be Morningstar. Morningstar’s _dead_.”

Again the two toons exchanged a series of Significant Looks. She was getting really tired of that. 

Finally, the white-haired angel said, “We-e-e-ell, we know that he _disappeared_. And his … movement … certainly fell apart. The human authorities had every reason to proclaim that such a frightening criminal had been killed. But toons are, as you know, extremely _durable_ creatures; and nobody ever saw a body.”

Anathema clenched her jaw. “I did.”

Now both angel and demon regarded her with shock.

She gripped the armrests of her seat very tightly. She stared unseeing at the screen as she explained. “Agnes Nutter, my Great-Aunt Agnes … she took me in after my parents died. Raised me, taught me everything she knew. She wanted me to join her in the Agency, but I saw how, even with all her fame, she was always depending on the next client, the next case. I didn’t want that. I wanted something more … stable. So I joined the police. She was disappointed, but she loved me, wanted me to be happy, and …”

She trailed off, cleared her throat, and went on. “Anyways. That’s all backstory. Agnes was also really close friends with Francis Acme. Or maybe more like frenemies, I know that Acme was always making fun of my Great-Aunt’s, um, eccentricities, and Agnes accused Acme of trying to control everyone and everything. But they seemed to like each other a lot, and really respect each other, and when I was a kid I was always running around Eden and hanging out in Toontown. So, when the anti-human riots started, and people were getting hurt, my Great-Aunt got really worried. And … you had to know her, but when she was worried, she’d never let it go. She’d work at it and work at it until she had a plan, one that would cover every possible contingency. It was like … she could see the future.” She swallowed.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said compassionately. “You needn’t go on. We will take your word for it.”

Anathema shook her head. This was the worst part, but if there were rumours among the toons that Morningstar was still alive, she wanted them scotched immediately. “So Agnes made a plan, and went to see Acme. To her credit, Acme immediately understood what would happen, and refused to cooperate. Michael … Michael told me later that she counselled Acme against it as well. Michael said that it was _her_ job to protect her boss, and that it was _insulting_ that Agnes wanted to, to ‘ _go over her head_ ’, but my Great-Aunt insisted. She pointed out that Morningstar would never meet with Acme, that he wouldn’t even go anywhere _near_ Michael, but that he would never believe a mere human could be smarter or more dangerous than he was. She said that if Acme wouldn’t go along with, she’d just do it on her own. And at last she talked Acme into it. Acme sent Morningstar a message that she was willing to listen. That maybe they could work something out. That she was sending Agnes Nutter as her representative. And he agreed.”

She smiled ruefully. “It was all a charade, of course. Everybody knew that Morningstar didn’t have anything as dull as _demands_. That he hadn’t the slightest interest in any sort of _compromise_. That he would just use this as an opportunity to show his strength, to terrify humans in general and humiliate Acme in particular. So nobody was surprised that when he went to greet my Great-Aunt, some of his people were there in the warehouse, and they … they c-caught her, and t-tied her up, and, and, and b-b-b-burned …”

She remembered Hornblower, now a pile of charred ash in his own office. _I really ought to notify the police, if Sandy hasn’t already_ , she thought vaguely. 

“But what Morningstar _didn’t_ expect is that Agnes had come prepared. She stuffed her clothes with explosives and shrapnel—nails, mostly, some screws, scrap metal, stuff like that. When the fire caught the dynamite, Morningstar and all his people, they … they were _obliterated_. ‘Discorporated,’ Michael called it. There was nothing left of them but small splotches of paint on the walls. Michael wanted me to see it. She _showed_ it to me. She said that she thought it would make me feel, I don’t know, _safer_ , to know that the people who killed my Great-Aunt were so completely destroyed.”

She stopped for a moment, and hugged herself. “Not much else to say. That’s the last I really spent time with Acme. She … didn’t want to look at me. At anybody. The next week, I quit the force, and took over the Agency. That’s … that’s about it.”

“So. Doomsday _can’t_ be Morningstar. That’s one thing I’m absolutely sure of.” Anathema risked looking up.

Aziraphale’s eyes were drenched with tears. “Oh, you poor child. Oh, my dear. No wonder you so loathe toons.” He fished out a handkerchief, and blew his nose loudly.

Even Crowley looked appalled. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay, then. Must be somebody else. Maybe …” he glanced at the angel. “Maybe one of the Erics?”

“I’m sure that _I_ wouldn’t know, they were _your_ friends, but I shouldn’t think so,” Aziraphale answered. “They didn’t strike me as at all imaginative enough to come up with this sort of plan, let alone inventing something as … fiendishly complicated as a potion that could transform a toon into a human being.”

“Point.” The demon considered. “Now that I think of it, wouldn’t’ve thought it of Lucifer as well. Even that Holy Water would be a bit much for him. Not that he was _stupid_ , far from it, but …”

“There is no shortage of mad-scientist-type toons with a grudge,” the angel said wearily. “Unfortunately, I don’t think that line of enquiry will get us very far.”

“S’pose it don’t matter, anyhow,” the ginger agreed glumly.

“Not really,” Anathema said, grateful that their conversation had given her a chance to pull herself back together. “But I do have something else you might want to take a look at.” She fished the envelope of photographs from her bag and removed some of the ones showing the dark street. She handed them over to Aziraphale. “Recognize anything?”

The white-haired toon riffled through them quickly. He beamed in delight. “Oh, my dear, that was so sweet of you.”

“M not _sweet_ ,” Crowley groused, peering over his shoulder. He glanced up at the detective. “Don’t suppose we could use ‘em to provide the angel any sort of alibi?”

She shook her head. “Not unless you’re willing to perjure yourself in court and testify that you saw him leaving Eden while Acme was still alive.” She saw him obviously turn the idea over in his mind. “You didn’t, did you?”

“Mayyyyybe….” He caught her expression, sighed, and slouched back in his seat. “Nah.”

“Did you see Michael, then?” Aziraphale asked.

“ _Michael_?” the demon stuttered. “Not if I can help it, why?”

“I thought that she might have come over to, well, scold you,” the other admitted. “For the apples, I mean.”

“Michael was watching _you_ ,” Anathema said. “She promised to keep an eye on you, after she chucked me out.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No. Look.” He tapped his finger on the mysterious white object in the corner of one of the photos. “That’s the tip of her wing. I’d know it anywhere.”

Both the detective and the demon studied the picture. “Huh,” Anatherma said. _So Michael left Acme unprotected that night._ That had to mean _something_. She wished she knew what.

Crowley glanced up at the screen, where a doe-eyed Gail Russell was picking blackberries with a grim John Wayne. “We can’t stay here,” he announced abruptly.

Aziraphale started to protest, something about an _uplifting message_ , when he saw the demon give a minute shake of his head. “Well, then, where to?” he asked brightly. “Dinner, perhaps?” 

“Toontown should be the safest, if anyone’s looking for us,” Crowley answered. “We’d stick out anywhere else, and we’ve both got friends there.” He gave the angel a complicated look. “Would you mind … we might … take us back to yours, that all right?”

“That will be fine,” Aziraphale answered instantly, a trifle surprised. “Please join us, my dear girl?”

<+>X<+>

Bentley was parked on a side street not too far away. Anathema took the opportunity of the walk to drop behind the other toon and ask Crowley why he was in such a hurry to get away from the theatre. 

He rubbed the back of his neck, looked up, down, then shrugged and answered just as quietly. “Dunno. Just a feeling. Too much weird stuff happening at once. Acme. Hornblower. Doomsday. And now Michael … you saw the direction in those photos. She wasn’t heading towards Toontown, like you’d expect. Maybe she was just circling around. Maybe … maybe all this talk about Lucifer’s got me spooked. But I’d rather be someplace that felt … a little less vulnerable.” He gave her a wry, lopsided grin. “’Sides, you’ll like the angel’s place. Everybody does.”

She sniffed, and was about to tell him that she did not like _anywhere_ in Toontown, but as they turned the corner, they were interrupted by a plaintive wail from Bentley’s speakers:

_I'm the lonesomest gal in town  
Everybody has thrown me down…_

“Oi!” The demon toon rapped her fender indignantly. “It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours!”

_I got no angel child to ever call me "dear"  
Got no honey man for me to cuddle near…_

“Now, now…” soothed Aziraphale. “It’s been a very stressful time for us all. It’s only natural that the dear girl has been feeling fretful.” He patted the toon automobile on the bonnet. “Bentley, darling, I’d like you to meet Miss Anathema Device. Would you be amenable to permitting her to ride along? In the back seat, of course.”

_Am I nosy? Very very - Would you like to take a walk?_

That, Anathema thought, was rather rude.

The angel apparently agreed. “None of that,” he said sternly. “Miss Device is doing her job _._ She has put a great deal of effort into helping me. Oh, _and_ Crowley too. And Crowley thinks that we would all be safer back at my building. You _do_ remember where I live, don’t you? If not, we can always summon a taxicab…” His tone, as he trailed off, was nothing but mild, but there was a clear threat behind it. 

Apparently he could be a bit of a bastard, when he wanted.

The Bentley thought so as well, to judge by her response.

_Thanks for the memory  
Of letters I destroyed  
Books that we enjoyed  
Tonight the way things look  
I need a book by Sigmund Freud  
How brainy he was!_

The demon laughed, although Anathema wasn’t sure of the joke.

“Yes, very amusing,” Aziraphale snipped. “Then let us be on our way.”

The short drive into Toontown may well have been the single most terrifying experience of the detective’s life. Although Crowley sat in the driver’s seat, as far as she could tell his only actual contribution was repeatedly sounding the horn, and informing the toon automobile how wonderful she was. The rest of it—zooming at twice the speed limit, rounding corners on two (or one, or possibly zero) wheels, ignoring traffic signals and signs, and at least once going the wrong way down a one-way street, all the while crooning jazz at top volume—was all Bentley. Once they entered the chaos of Toontown proper, Anathema squeezed her eyes shut, so she wouldn’t have to cope with the visual cacophony of traffic that made this ride look sedate. 

For his part, Aziraphale grabbed the overhead bar and hung on like grim death, not speaking a word until the automobile screeched to a haphazard halt in front of a graceful French-Spanish Revival building, all light yellow stucco and elegant iron railings. “Ah, this would be me,” he said, patting his hands on his thighs. “Thank you, my dear, for the lift.” 

Bentley tootled affectionately as he got out. “Top floor,” he said, ushering Crowley and a still slightly wobbly-legged Anathema past planters overflowing with geraniums and marigolds. The flowers all rotated their bright sunny smiles towards the angel, chirping “Hi, Aziraphale! Bye, Aziraphale!” as he passed. A brace of blue birds swooped past them to the top of the stairs, dropping a bouquet of white blossoms; he caught it deftly in one hand without looking, and presented it to Anathema. “For you, dear girl,” he said with a little bow. As the dazed detective lowered her face to sniff at the flowers, they transformed into white butterflies and flittered away giggling.

Crowley made a disgusted sort of “hnrrrrghhhl” at the back of his throat.

Inside, Aziraphale’s penthouse proved to be more dark and cluttered than Anathema had expected. Partially that was because it looked as if the angel _never_ dusted, and the oversized windows and even the round skylight transmitted only a murky golden glow that barely illuminated the heavy velvet drapes and Victorian brocade wallpaper. Most of the walls were covered with shelves, crammed layers deep with leather-covered volumes; more books and papers were stacked in precarious towers upon every conceivable horizontal (and not a few angled and rounded) surface. Empty mugs and cups and wineglasses were scattered everywhere, along with a bewildering assortment of curios and knickknacks, ranging from what looked like priceless antiques to a rather inexplicable rubber duck. The place smelled undeniably of must and mold, but also of tea and ink and vanilla. 

Anathema began to understand the automobile’s little joke.

“Don’t see why Beelz had to waste money on a set,” the demon groused, unceremoniously shoving nearly a dozen volumes off a faded sofa and sprawling upon it. “They could’ve filmed the whole thing here for a fraction of the price.”

Aziraphale seemed entirely unself-conscious about the ramshackle state of his home. “Well, I did let the designers in to take a peek for inspiration, but they said that it was entirely unsuitable. Something about ‘ _sight lines_ ’ but I suspect that they were discouraged when an entire set of the 1911 _Britannica_ collapsed on Harriet.”

“Totally accidentally,” Crowley grinned.

“Of course, my dear. You surely cannot think that I would _deliberately_ make someone feel unwelcome,” Aziraphale said piously, his hands clasped behind his back. “And do not worry, the encyclopaedias were entirely unharmed. And, speaking of welcome, do make yourself comfortable, Miss Device. I shall go ahead and put the kettle on—“

“Wine,” the demon interrupted.

“Very well, and open up a bottle or two. And I shall just pop over to the telephonic machine and have Chasen’s deliver us some chili, shan’t I?” With that, the angel bustled off, and Anathema looked about for somewhere to sit while causing as little disturbance as possible. She eventually settled on a cozy chair that had previously stored well-thumbed editions of _Ulysses_ , _Sons and Lovers_ , _Justine_ , _Forever Amber_ , and the poems of Sappho. _Naughty_ angel.

Anathema and Aziraphale had enjoyed their tea (and some biscuits, and a plate of sliced pears with cheese and honey) and the trio were well into the second bottle of wine when there finally came a sound from the door. Crowley sat up straight, his nose twitching. “Don’t answer that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s just our supper,” the angel said. The ginger toon scowled and flicked a serpentine tongue, then cried “ _Ssssstop!_ ”

It was too late. Aziraphale had already opened the door, and a gush of stifling, grey-black smoke poured into the room. Through the billows could be seen two unfortunately familiar toons, blood-red and maggot-pale. 

“Surprise,” said Scarlet, baring a mouthful of too many too-sharp teeth. She hurled the glass bottles she held in both hands into the room, where they shattered, spilling something that filled the air with a sweetish pungent stink.

Chalky nodded, then flicked a lit cigarette butt into one of the puddles, igniting a searing yellow-blue flame. The pair then fled down the foyer to the stairwell, accompanied by Scarlet’s high-pitched giggling.

Before Aziraphale could even turn around, the fire had spread across half the room. Anathema had backed up against one set of shelves. Crowley was endeavouring to smother the flames with a sofa cushion, but by the time he put out one fire, half a dozen more had started up.

The angel’s eyes were round with shock. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he moaned, holding up his hands palms out. He whirled to a stack of smouldering books and snapped his fingers until they ceased to burn, then dashed to the next.

“No _time_!” Crowley screamed.

“But my _books_!” the other sobbed.

“But the _girl_!” the demon retorted, waving an arm at Anathema, who was coughing raggedly into the curtain she had dragged across her mouth.

Aziraphale gasped, and dropped the books immediately. He flew across the room to the detective, scooping her up in his arms. “Up, up! The stairs will be an inferno by now!”

“Up _where_?” she coughed.

“I’m afraid it will have to be the oculus.” He launched himself into the air, heading towards the skylight. “Crowley…”

“Right behind you, angel.” Through the smoke and her tearing eyes, Anathema could see the demon rapidly climbing a set of bookshelves like a ladder. Then there was a great red and yellow flare, and a blazing _FFFWWOOOSHHH_ , and the angel tucked her head into his chest and smashed through the skylight with an earsplitting crunch of shattering glass, and then another _whoosh_ of superheated air and gout of flames, and the angel was tumbling arse-over-teakettle, and she slipped out his grasp, and she was falling, _falling_ …

…suddenly, her right hand was clasped by soft, strong fingers; at almost the same moment her left wrist was roughly seized, and her plunge came to a gentle halt. 

She dared to open her eyes.

Above her to the right, the expected sight of a plump angel, pristine wings outspread and faintly glowing, smiling at her in a reassuring fashion as he cradled her fingers with both hands. To her left …

… a spiky, angular demon, enormous soot-black pinions beating the air. He glared at her, but readjusted the tight grasp on her wrist to be slightly less painful.

“You … you have _wings_ ,” she said, rather stupidly.

“Of course he does,” Aziraphale said. “Angels and demons are of the same stock, after all. Originally.”

“That was a _long_ time ago, angel.”

“You saved my life,” she went on.

“Entirely my pleasure,” Aziraphale beamed, at the same time that the demon muttered, “Tell ever’body, why don’t you?”

Together they brought her slowly to the pavement. Crowley shook his wings, and somehow folded them so that they disappeared entirely from sight. Aziraphale kept his extended, shielding her from sparks and swirling embers from the burning building.

A clanging bell announced the arrival of the Toontown Fire Department. The angel clasped his arms behind his back and watched with resigned despair as a squad of toon firefighters, wearing bright red helmets and yellow overcoats, tripped over hoses and sprayed each other and raced up to the blaze hauling impossibly tiny buckets dribbling water.

“At least it seems that everyone got out safely,” he sighed, as four firefighters positioned a trampoline with a hole in the bottom beneath a ground floor window, shouting encouragement to ‘ _Jump!_ ’ at an obviously stuffed lorikeet in a gilded cage.

Crowley regarded him quietly. “You could stay at my place. If you like,” he offered, in a soft voice Anathema had never heard him use before.

Aziraphale looked over at him, startled, then stared at his feet for a long time.

Anathema, throat unaccountably tight, moved away a little to give them some privacy. She tensed when she heard the sirens and saw the lights from what was surely a human law enforcement vehicle. The cop car came to a stop next to the toon fire engine, and Shadwell stepped out, one hand busy with his ever-present cup of coffee. 

She sagged. _Of course._ Exactly what this day needed. She moved to intercept him before he could approach the silent angel and demon standing side by side, still gazing at the wreckage. “Hello, Sarge.” 

“Lieutenant!”

“You gonna arrest him?” she jerked her head towards Aziraphale.

Shadwell shook his head. “I should be arresting _you_. You should’ve called me about Hornblower straight away.”

“Stuff happened.” She shrugged. “I did chase Doomsday halfway to Toontown, but …”

“I canna detain a man just because you’ve taken him in dislike, lass.” The police lieutenant flipped his empty hand at the angel. “I’ll bring him in if he wants to come, but …” He gestured vaguely at the destruction all around him. “I dinna hold with …”

“Can you promise to keep him safe?” Anathema asked with a sudden urgency. “It’s obvious that this Toon Patrol’s got it in for him. I saw them set the fire with my own eyes! I’m telling you, Angel is innocent. I’d swear it on … on _The Nice and Accurate Guide_.” Her former sergeant knew better than most how seriously she would take such an oath.

“Not your call.” Shadwell slurped his coffee. “Nor mine. That’s for a jury to decide. What I _do_ know is yon toon escaped from police custody yesterday.” 

“Doomsday was going to _murder_ him, Sarge!” she said hotly.

“The man’s a judge, Device.” 

“So was Judge Lynch.” 

They glared at each other. Shadwell looked away first. “Ay, wella … I don’t know why anyone went wi’ this …” The tilt of his head encompassed the entire scene of destruction. “Verra unprofessional. Puts innocents in danger. And for what? Angel’s a _toon_ – it’s not like fire can hurt him.” 

“No,” Anathema’s brain began to work again. _At last_. “No, what it can’t do is _kill_ him. _Hurting_ him – that was the whole _point_.” Oh, she hoped she wasn’t too late. “Crowley!” 

The demon’s head snapped around. “Detective Girl?”

“Listen! Doomsday’s going after things that Aziraphale cares about.” Behind those dark glasses she could see his eyes go wide. “Get that insane car of yours and go warn—“

“Tracy and the kids, right.” His lips were pressed together in a grim line. “On it.”

“Wait. _Wait_!” Shadwell shouted. Crowley ignored him.

The police lieutenant turned to Anathema. “ _Tracy_ … D’ye mean the Hoor of Babylon and her demon bairns?” 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I mean Tracy Potts, the social worker that Acme hired at …” 

“Aye. The verra same.” Shadwell ran to catch up with the demon. “Anyone who wants to hurt the Jezebel will have to first get past me.”

Anathema stared after him, then went to join Aziraphale. The firefighters had, almost despite themselves, managed to put the fire out; or maybe everything that could burn already had. The white-haired toon was edging close to the wreckage, trying to peer in and see if anything could be salvaged. 

The detective had thought she had witnessed the full range of emotional states available to toons. She had seen them happy, playful, giddy, frolicsome, witty, joyful, and effervescent. She had seen them sarcastic, scheming, cruel, vicious, angry, furious, and explosive. She had seen them frightened, baffled, dazed, even weeping lugubrious tears.

She had never seen a toon look _grim_ before. It looked _wrong_ somehow.

Aziraphale bent down and picked up some charred sheets of paper from the street. They crumbled in his hands. He scuffled with his feet through the detritus and uncovered a slightly melted corkscrew. He picked it up and examined it. 

A sheaf of folded papers fell out of his inside coat pocket.

Automatically Anathema bent to pick them up and return them. Instead, her fingers froze. Across the top of the elegant cream sheet was inscribed MY INEFFABLE PLAN in severe Roman capitals. Beneath that line was printed, in an elegant script, _It Is Written_.

“Angel,” she said in a strangled voice. “This came from Eden. This is Acme’s.” In how many photographs had she seen these very pages just this morning?

Aziraphale looked at what she held so stiffly. “Ah. Er. Yes.” Was it the reflection of the remaining fireglow, or were his cheeks turning pink?

“Where did you get these, Angel? When?” She met his eyes. “ _Why_?”

“We-e-ll.” He sucked in a breath. “I told you. The other night. When I went to see Mothe-, er, Her Highness. She was … under the impression, the _very mistaken_ impression I assure you, that I, um, harboured sentiments towards Crowley, that … went beyond the entirely appropriate respect and esteem one should feel for a talented acting partner, and…” He trailed off, and turned even pinker.

Anathema rolled her eyes. “Aziraphale, I am a detective. I am perfectly aware that you are completely _gone_ on that annoying prat.”

“You _are_?” Oh, there was no denying it, the angel actually _squeaked_.

“If it’s any comfort, I’m just as certain that _he_ has no idea. But, moving on? Acme brought it up? What, she wanted you to tell you off?” Great-Aunt Agnes had always said that Acme was a consummate meddler.

“No. No, if anything, the opposite. Mother thought that, that it was … _cute_. She wanted me to, um, ‘ _try my luck_.’” Aziraphale’s face twisted.

Anathema thought that she knew why. “And that’s when you told her to butt out of your business.”

“Yes,” he grieved. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Hey,” she punched the angel lightly on the shoulder. “For what it’s worth, you were absolutely right. It wasn’t her place to push you.”

“Perhaps.” He still looked terribly sad. “But Mother … She cared, so _much_ , you know. Everything that She did, She did out of love.”

Her mouth tasted sour. Still, if it brought him comfort to think that way, it wasn’t any skin off of her nose. “So, the papers?”

“Oh! Oh, yes. All of Her notepaper has that letterhead. It’s… it was the company slogan, you know. She thought it a great joke.” He turned the corkscrew over and over. “After we … argued, I’m afraid that I, er, _borrowed_ some.”

The detective thought about that. She could see it, yeah. Just simple enough, stupid enough, to explain everything. Her shoulders slumped. _So much for that clue_. “Whatever for?”

“I …” the angel glared at his hands, as if they were betraying him with their nervous fidgeting. “Well, I …” He took a deep breath. “I went home. I had … rather a lot to drink. And … I wrote Crowley a letter.”

Anathema would not, _would not_ , laugh. This poor idiot didn’t deserve that. Not after the past few days, at any rate. “So. Are you telling me, that after fighting with Acme, you stole her notepaper, got drunk, and wrote your, um, crush a _love letter_?”

Aziraphale was positively fuschia now. Still, he tipped up his chin defiantly. “More of a love poem, to be precise.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smirking. “And this is that?” She handed over the still-folded papers. He took them gratefully.

“Yes.” The look he gave her was a little shy. “Would … would you like to hear it?”

_Not in the slightest_. “Why not?”

The cream-coloured toon unfolded the sheaf, and cleared his throat. He began to read, in what was a painfully false disinterested elocutionary tone:

“ _How do I love thee? Let me count the ways:_  
_One: six thousand past, my wings spread in rain_  
_Return your gift of warmth, though not your grace_ _…_ ” 

Anathema couldn’t stand any more. “Aziraphale, I hate to break it to you, but that doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense.” 

“It’s an _analogy_!” 

Nope. She simply wasn’t going to let him humiliate himself this way. “Listen, when you begin a poem _let me count the ways_ , you’re not supposed to literally _count the ways_!” 

He sniffed. “I didn’t write it for _you_.”

“A poet you are _not_.”

Fortunately (or unfortunately) this budding row was cut off at this point by the sound of squealing tires and the wailing of “God Bless The Child.” 

Crowley leaned out of the front window of Bentley. “Angel! Get in the car! The center’s a wreck and Tracy and the Them are gone!”

The corkscrew still in Aziraphale’s hand suddenly ignited, a cold white fire licking up and down the spiral blade. For the first time Anathema saw in his narrowed eyes and hard jaw the Principality within the soft angel. “Of course you realize that this means _war_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not gonna pretend that the next chapter will be ready until next week. I want to be sure I get it right.
> 
> Yes, Alpha Centauri is a triple star system, as was first determined in 1915. Popular imagination still reserves the name for Alpha Centauri AB, which are binary stars, however.
> 
> The Hollywood Walk of Fame (where the stars are located on the sidewalk) was not actually even proposed until 1955, and the first star was not installed into 1960. I don’t care, this is an _alternate_ universe, and the idea was too delicious to pass up.
> 
> However, _Angel and the Badman_ , the John Wayne Western, and _Sleepy-Time Donald_ , the Donald and Daisy Duck short, _were_ both released in 1947. So there.
> 
> Grauman’s Chinese Theatre was at the original height of its gloriously tacky splendor in 1947, the Academy Awards (Oscars) ceremony having been held there the previous three years. The tradition of celebrity handprints in the forecourt began in 1927; however, considering that it took forty years before Sidney Poitier was invited to leave his, and the relative paucity of actors of color being invited even today, it seems extremely unlikely any toon actors would have been included.
> 
> Walt Disney was indeed a stone-cold racist with a weird hangup about making sure that all romances among even animal and fantasy cartoon characters were color-coordinated. Check out the centaur hookup sequence in _Fantasia_ if you don’t believe me.
> 
> Chasen’s Chili was one of the first restaurants to offer food delivery in Los Angeles (indeed, in the entire USA) and was a favourite of film celebrities from the 20’s through the 60’s.
> 
> And finally (whew!) this chapter’s Bentley songs (I love you, Ella Fitzgerald, but you made so many covers of jazz standards, and every version has different lyrics):  
> “Lonesomest Gal In Town” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7ieIaxACrA  
> “Would You Like To Take A Walk?” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fw-x1vr2XHw (alas, this particular lyric is in the verse, and I couldn’t find a free online recording of that; but enjoy this lovely duet version with Louis Armstrong)  
> “Thanks For The Memory” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xkspDkGPSPg (once again, I can’t find a free online version with this particular lyric, but this is a darling version)  
> “God Bless The Child” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=72zRcnd77E0 - the lyrics aren’t a perfect fit to this scene, but this was my very first Ella Fitzgerald song, and still one of my favourites, I had to put it in somewhere.  
> 


	9. Tonight What Heights We’ll Hit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sing Hallelujah, come on get happy  
>  Get ready for the judgment day! _
> 
> Everybody is hiding something.  
> Everybody has a chance to be awesome.  
> The End is Nigh…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that it took me so long to get this chapter up! I knew what had to happen, but getting everybody into the right place and doing their bits in the right order was like knitting with cooked spaghetti. Also, I wish it weren’t so loooooong, but it’s basically all one scene and I couldn’t find a good place to break it.
> 
> CW: Coarse language, smiting, (toon) injury, (toon) destruction, pharmaceutical misuse, period-typical slurs about mental illness, more Bad Poetry

Aziraphale and Anathema piled into the automobile, toons in the front seat and humans in the rear.

Crowley tapped the steering wheel, “All right-y, then, where to?” 

All four just stared at each other.

“Detective Girl?” the demon asked again.

_C’mon, Great-Aunt Agnes!_ She racked her brain for any relevant suggestions. 

_Do notte feel Fear or Shame to turn agayne to ye Beginning-Plaice_. 

“Eden,” she said at last. “It all comes back to Acme, doesn’t it?”

Nobody answered except Bentley, who immediately revved her engine and headed towards the Acme corporate headquarters, defiantly blasting:

_Pack up your troubles and c’mon get happy  
Ya better chase all your cares away  
Sing Hallelujah, come on get happy  
Get ready for the judgment day! _

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale muttered. “I do hope that doesn’t turn out to be an omen.”

Despite Eden’s location on the very borders of Toontown, the customary dense chaos on its streets meant that the drive took long enough for stress and worry to begin to take hold of every passenger. Crowley gripped the wheel tightly, singing tunelessly along to the radio. Aziraphale tugged at his waistcoat, straightened his bowtie, and smoothed the lapels of his coat, over and over. Shadwell muttered indescribable Scottish noises at the back of his throat and slurped his coffee-sludge. Anathema herself kept running through Great-Aunt Agnes’s aphorisms, searching for any hint or clue to guide her actions.

Still, there was probably no vehicle which could have navigated the distance more quickly than Bentley—

_We're heading 'cross the river  
Gonna wash our sins in the tide  
It's all so peaceful  
On the other side _

—until a waterfall of poison-green liquid splashed down from an overhead bridge, narrowly missing the toon automobile. Ella Fitzgerald’s voice from the radio trailed off into screeching static as Bentley skidded through the pool, spinning around until she shuddered to a halt on the verge.

Crowley was the first to leap out of the vehicle, Aziraphale close on his heels.

“Bentley,” the demon crooned, crouching down by the wheels. “ _Baby!_ Sing to me! You are _my_ car, I’ve had you from new, you are _not_ going to dissolve, don’t even _think_ of it!” He turned to Aziraphale, naked pleading evident even through his dark glasses. “Fix her, angel, she’s _hurt_!”

_Don't worry 'bout me_ _  
I'll get along  
Forget about me  
  
_

“Hush, you,” the angel addressed the automobile with gentle sternness. He bent over to look at the melted tyres. “I think she’ll be all right. Eventually.” He snapped his fingers, and there was a brief flash of light. The Bentley juddered, then relaxed with an audible hiss. 

The humans got out as Aziraphale circled around Bentley, blessing the three other tyres. The four of them stood about awkwardly for a moment. “I guess we walk?” Anathema offered, trying to sound chipper.

Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose there is no other option. This poor girl will be in no condition to drive for quite some time.”

In a quaver quite unlike her usual brash style, Bentley sang

_Stiff upper lip, stout fella  
Carry on, old fluff  
Chin up, keep muddling through  
Stiff upper lip, stout fella  
When the going's rough  
Pip pip to old man trouble  
And a toodly-oo too  
  
_

Crowley laughed. It was a weak and jagged thing, but genuine. “How does the rest of that song go? _Quite, quite, quite, quite, quite._ We can’t let those kids face Doomsday alone, eh? We’ll just … Oh, _bollocks_.”

This last seemed to be addressed to the half-dozen figures currently clambering down from the bridge and approaching them. Anathema watched them with more curiosity than fear. All six toons were _identical_ , from their dark skin and pointy hairstyle to their lumpy olive-coloured uniforms. They skirted the puddle of steaming Holy Water to encircle the group. “Crawly,” they intoned simultaneously.

The demon sighed. “Nothing like seeing your stupid youthful mistakes all slither up from the earth in the same week. Hi, Erics. How’s the mascot gig going? What was it, alligator pears or somethin’?”

“ _Avocados_ ,” the Erics harmonized tetchily. “Our slogan is _Why Stop With Just One?_ ”

“Ooh, avocados!” Aziraphale perked up. “Lovely! Sliced, with poached shrimp and a drizzle of raspberry vinaigrette, quite elegant!”

One of the Erics turned to him, eyes bright. “Yes, that’s good. But we’re really trying to promote some more traditional ethnic dishes, there’s this one where you sorta smoosh ripe ones together with lime juice and garlic and tomatoes…”

The angel wiggled. “Intriguing! And how do you serve…”

“Guys!” Anathema yelled. “This isn’t a recipe swap! You may not have noticed, but this …” _Toon_? _Toons_? She compromised with a general wave. “… just tried to kill us!”

The six interchangeable toons regarded her with detached interest. One asked, “Can I hit her? I’ve always wanted to hit a human.”

Aziraphale’s corkscrew suddenly flickered with fire again. The Erics eyed it nervously, and backed away. 

“Yeah, no.” Crowley put his hands on his hips and glared at the toons surrounding them. “What do you want, Eric? Last I saw you, you were gooning for Morningstar. Your vegetable smooshers know that you’re moonlighting as a murderer’s henchtoon now? Or is this just a hobby for you?”

“Doomsday has a _Plan_ , snake,” one of the Erics answered disdainfully. “You never understood _commitment to the cause_ ,” another chimed in. “He wants _you_ ” a third pointed at Aziraphale “to join him.” “He didn’t say anything about the rest of you,” a fourth added with a meaningful smirk.

“You can’t force either Crowley or me to do anything,” the angel said, lifting his flaming corkscrew and circling around.

“Nope,” a fifth Eric agreed. “But I don’t think _you_ can protect these humans from all of us.” He moved behind Shadwell, while the last grabbed Anathema by the upper arm. She kicked backwards, aiming high, and the toon doubled over with a satisfying groan.

She saw Shadwell reaching inside his jacket, and the other five lookalike toons crowded a little closer. This wasn’t going to end well for anyone. More important, it was wasting time. “We’ll come with you peacefully,” she said. “All of us.” Crowley opened his mouth to argue, but she shot him a quelling glare. “We were headed to see Doomsday anyway.”

The Erics herded them to a sinister-looking (if entirely humanly-manufactured) sedan. Raven was seated behind the wheel. All of the Erics somehow _folded_ themselves into one singular Eric, and stood by the front passenger door, while Anathema, Shadwell, Aziraphale and Crowley crowded into the rear.

“Sorry for the tight squeeze,” Raven silkily tossed over his shoulder. “Perhaps you should consider a reducing diet in the future.” He sneered. “Not that any of you have much of a future.”

<+>X<+>

No one was surprised when the midnight-blue sedan pulled up to the rear of the Acme headquarters building. Anathema was a little disappointed, however, when Raven (Eric had stayed behind to guard the car) bypassed the front door to head for the adjoining warehouse, where the company had stored the tricks and gimmicks developed through the years for ever more over-the-top entertainments. She had hoped that this confrontation might have occurred in the gardens, where there was room to maneuver, or perhaps inside the living quarters, with its plenitude of hiding spaces.

The warehouse was usually little more than a Great Big Empty, lined floor-to-ceiling with dusty metal shelves crammed with anvils, collapsible pianos, earthquake pills, chicken grenades, giant rubber bands, jet-propelled unicycles, straitjacket-ejecting bazookas, and thousands of other unlikely oddments. 

Right now, however, the expanse of concrete floor was filled with an even more bizarre collection of entities. Judge Doomsday, as expected, his sepulchral figure leaning on his stick, flanked by the three remaining members of the Toon Patrol; Raven quickly glided over to join them. Four more Erics, busily fussing with an ugly metal contraption that vaguely resembled a street-cleaning machine. And, thank Someone, the four children comprising the Them, accompanied by the red-haired social worker Tracy, all curled up on the floor but (to judge by the sound of their peaceful breathing) apparently unharmed. An enormous dragon toon was crouched behind them, sheltering them under one outstretched wing. 

Anathema certainly hadn’t figured on _that_ , but she was incredibly grateful for Michael’s presence. She couldn’t imagine anyone who could provide more effective protection.

“Adam! Pepper! All of you!” Crowley shouted, breaking into a run. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you? I swear by all that’s unholy that if he laid _one finger_ …”

Michael struck out with her other wing and knocked the demon flat. “Stay back,” she hissed.

Anathema began to re-think her gratitude.

“I told you that Aziraphale would come running if I took the children,” Michael observed to Doomsday dispassionately. “Now, keep your end of the deal.”

“The Angel, yes, but you did not say anything about …” Doomsday’s eyes flickered over the others with disgust “… surplus debris.”

“I don’t give a toss about the adult humans,” the dragon said. “Lump them together with the children, for all I care. The demon, though …” She spat a small gout of fire. “He betrayed Her Highness. He is _mine_ to punish.”

Crowley, still on the floor, made an extremely rude gesture with both hands.

Michael ignored him. “Return the Holy Water you stole, and I will leave you in peace.” She smiled crookedly. “For now.”

Aziraphale fluttered hurriedly over to the prone demon. “My dearest boy, are you injured?”

The ginger toon gave him a dazed grin. “Tickety-boo, angel.”

Aziraphale shifted his attention to the dragon. “I have no intention whatsoever in colluding with this … this … this _ba—bad_ person. I don’t care what he wants of me, I shall not do it.”

Doomsday sneered at him. “You _will_ help me. You’ll have no choice.”

The angel deliberately turned his back on the judge and frowned up at Michael. “I simply cannot comprehend how you could … _fraternize_ with such a villain as this. It was _your_ dereliction of duty that allowed Moth-, Her Highness that is, to be murdered. And unless I am very much mistaken, _he_ was involved in Her death!”

The dragon rolled her eyes. “Oh, give over, Aziraphale. It’s not like you aren’t hopelessly compromised yourself. You and your depraved fondness for humans.”

“ _Mother_ was human!”

“Her Highness,” Michael bit out, little bursts of flame leaking from her nostrils, “was a _Creator_. The exact opposite of a toon. All we do borrow. _Steal_. We’re drawn from human imaginations and dreams, we mouth their words and sing their songs, but we don’t make anything new. _She_ understood that. She knew we had to be kept completely apart from the humans, if we ever wanted to be truly ourselves. But you … you’ve been out there, _consorting_ with them, too long. It’s time to choose sides, Aziraphale.”

Anathema decided that she had kept silent long enough. “So you’re siding with Acme’s murderer?”

“That one,” the dragon said with utter contempt, “never created a thing in his entire existence. All he ever did was _destroy_.” She glared at him. “But I cannot bring Her Highness back to life. All I can do is try to recover Her creations from human hands. Give me the Holy Water.”

Doomsday laughed. “Come and take it.”

“Do I look like a fool? I can no more touch it than …” Michael’s eyes narrowed. “…than I suspect _you_ can, at this point. That potion has well and truly run its course, hasn’t it?”

Anathema glanced at the judge, then wished she hadn’t. His distorted aura was peeling and shredding, in that same unnerving way that Hornblower’s had. 

“The angel can fix it! Make it permanent!” Doomsday shrieked, his voice climbing to an unnatural pitch. “It was in Her notes!”

“Oh, I say!” Aziraphale objected. “I would have no idea how even to begin to do such a thing.”

“ _O Lord, heal this potion_ …” Crowley chortled, still on the floor.

The detective ignored them both. “The potion … did he steal that from Acme as well? Why would you let him keep it, then?”

Michael shrugged. “That stuff was … a mistake. An abomination. If he wishes a pure toon nature to become so, so, _sullied_ ”—she pulled her lips back and licked them, much like a cat when it encounters something foul beyond description—“best to make it permanent.” She slid her regard back to Doomsday. “All the easier to ensure his destruction will be _equally_ permanent.”

“You tried that once already,” Doomsday hissed, still in that high-pitch squeal. “Didn’t stick, did it?”

“Huh. Never knew that Michael had bought into Morningstar’s daft ideas,” Crowley remarked, still sounding vaguely amused. “Wonder if _She_ knew?” he asked the ceiling. “Wouldn’t put it past Her.”

“You _idiot_.” The dragon made as if to smack the demon again with her wing, but Aziraphale was suddenly standing between them, corkscrew flaming. “Oh, put your little toy away, Angel. And _pay attention_. Doomsday _is_ Morningstar.”

“Ha! Toldja,” the demon crowed.

Anathema stood frozen. “You told me,” she said slowly, her tongue feeling stiff and thick. “You _promised_ me. That he was completely destroyed. That he was never coming back.”

“So? I was wrong,” Michael shrugged. “I thought he had been discorporated. He got better.”

“ _Two years_ ,” Doomsday … _Morningstar_ … screeched. “Twenty-three months, two weeks, and three days it took me. Pulling myself together, drop by drop, unsticking myself from walls and ceilings and floors … So much of me was lost.” He dragged a hand down his cadaverous frame. “So much _fouled_. But I was alive. Whole. And I swore then and there that I was going to _stay_ that way. I would hide among the humans. I would _become_ one of them. And I would find a way to permanently destroy toons, _every_ toon who had betrayed me, the way that they had completely failed to get rid of me.”

Sometime during this rant, Crowley finally sat up. He rested his elbows on sprawled knees. “Blah blah blah, me me me,” he drawled. “Now I remember why I ditched your merry band. So. Much. _Drama_.”

Doomsday’s head swiveled until he could fix his glare on the demon. “You want _drama_ , Crawly? How’s this for drama? Eric!” he snapped. “Explain to our guests the machine you are currently tending!”

“Yes, sir, right away. Right.” One of the interchangeable toons stepped forward, clutching a clipboard. “This here is a modified Austin-Westin streetsweeper, very latest design, Model 40. That name’s a bit of a mouthful, though, I was thinking we’d call it,” he coughed, “ahem, _DoomForce One_.”

“Explain what it _does_ , you fool.” The judge rapped his stick on the floor.

“Er, yes, well, you can see we’ve tripled the spray attachment here, here, and here.” Another Eric rapped the indicated areas on the machine. A third posed in front of the bulbous tank hoisted over the rear. “And we’ve increased the size of the hopper tank and diverted the exhaust, so this baby can distribute almost two hundred gallons of heated payload.” The last identical toon unlatched and threw open the lid. “That is, two hundred gallons of boiling Holy Water.”

“That’s right,” Doomsday said. “First thing tomorrow morning, we’ll be cleaning the filth of Toontown.”

This drew a gasp from every listener except Michael. The dragon continued to stare at the judge, enigmatically blinking.

Anathema, to her own mild amazement, was horrified. “You can’t do that! That will be a massacre!” she shouted. 

“What the bloody _Hell_ did She even create that foul stuff _for_?” Crowley groused.

“Her Highness informed me,” Michael said calmly, “that it was _intended to reveal what some would prefer to keep hidden_.”

That drew cackles and jeers from the members of the Toon Patrol. “It certainly does _that_ ,” Scarlet sniggered. “Pull out a barrel in front of a pack of toons and you can see their colours run.”

A calm voice overrode her mockery. “I’m assumin’ ye’ll have a permit for that street-cleaning then, yer Honor,” Shadwell said.

The police detective was over by the far wall, pulling Space Blankets off a shelf to pile around the children. (Madam Tracy had been propped up against a matching pair of Moon Pillows.) Anathema was ashamed to realize that while the rest of them had been caught up in the confrontation with Michael and Doomsday, Sarge had been checking on the welfare of the hostages.

“Indeed I do, Lieutenant, issued by the appropriate authority—who would be _me_ , of course—just this morning,” the judge answered giddily.

“But everyone will _die_!” wailed Aziraphale.

“Not _everyone_ ,” put in Michael, bored.

“They will have a _choice_ ,” agreed Doomsday. “I will offer every resident of Toontown a dose of the potion before cleansing begins. Assuming,” he looked pointedly at the angel, “that you finished what _She_ began.”

Aziraphale twisted his hands desperately. “I can’t be a part of this!”

“Too bad.” The judge shrugged. “Azrael, have your patrol eliminate the children.” He grinned at Aziraphale. “At least I am kind enough to ensure they’ll sleep through it.”

Anathema was appalled, again. “You didn’t—”

“Ordinary sleeping pills, Miss Device,” the judge said, sounding bored. “Practically candy. Entirely safe. Not that it will make much difference in the end,”

“ _Wait_!” Aziraphale cried. “You don’t understand! Even if I were willing, I’m not, not a _djinn_! I can’t fix whatever’s wrong with the potion just like _that_!” he snapped his fingers. “Miracles don’t work that way. I have to understand what I’m doing before I can do it!”

“How did you even know that Acme had created it in the first place, anyway?” Anathema asked. She didn’t really care, but believed, _hoped_ , that the longer she could keep Doomsday talking, the more chance there would be for something, _anything_ , to stop all this.

Something ugly twisted over the judge’s face. “She _told_ me. She wrote me that She was working on it, before that old witch, _your_ relative, almost destroyed me. She said that it wasn’t quite ready, but if I could just wait, I could try it, maybe it would give me some _appreciation_ ” he spat “for the humans.”

“But … if you hate humans so much, why do you want to force me to arrange it so you can be one permanently?” Aziraphale asked.

“She said that She wanted to give toons _freedom of choice_. She couldn’t make it fully effective, but She had Her eye on an up-and-coming toon who was a real _miracle-worker_ , one whom She thought in time could come up with a solution.” Doomsday ( _ne_ Morningstar _ne_ Lucifer) scoffed. “I wasted years thinking She had meant one of the scientist toons, Gyro Gearloose, Dr. Sivana, someone like that, until Hornblower told me about _you_.”

“Don’t ask Morningstar to make _sense_ , angel, can’t you tell he’s as loony as a lightning bug?” Crowley said wearily. 

“So, then…” Anathema was still puzzling it out. “If you were working with Hornblower, why did you kill him?”

“What?” That stopped Doomsday mid-rant. “ _I_ didn’t kill him. The narcissistic blowhard could still be an asset.”

“No, he couldn’t,” Michael snapped. “He had completely outlived his usefulness. That busybody detective was going to get Gabriel to blab everything to the police.”

Anathema gasped. “ _You_ murdered Hornblower?”

“Acceptable losses,” the dragon sniffed. “Not that he was much of a loss. A failure as a toon, and a complete _wanker_ as a human.”

“She’s got a point,” the demon confided to the room in general.

“Mr. Crowley? Izzat you?” a small voice quavered.

“Adam! You’re _awake_!” Crowley rushed over to the children, and this time the dragon didn’t stop him. He tried to pull all four into a hug, as they rubbed their eyes and yawned and complained. “What do I always say about taking candy from strangers?”

Brian squinted up at him. “ _Turn out their pockets to make sure they’re not keeping the good stuff for themselves_?”

Doomsday whirled around to glower at Raven. “What is this? I told you to feed them enough pills to keep them out the rest of the night.”

“Ah, that would be on me,” Aziraphale explained with some satisfaction. “I told you, once I understood how something worked …”

“Angel, since when have you _ever_ understood what was going on?” The demon grinned, but there wasn’t a glimmer of malice in his one. 

“Mr. Crowley, that isn’t fair!” Tracey scolded. “Thank the nice angel toon, children.”

“Thank you, Mr. Angel,” the Them dutifully chorused.

“ _Touching_ ,” Michael sneered.

“Not for long,” Doomsday growled. “Azrael, must I use smaller words? Kill. The. Brats.”

The skeletal toon addressed his patrol. “YOU HAVE YOUR ODORS.”

“Aye, an’ they stink of criminality,” Shadwell interjected again. “Murderin’ children is most definitely against the law.”

Anathema gaped at him. “Sarge! Haven’t you been listening?” she yelled. “How many crimes have _already_ been confessed here? Theft! Kidnapping! Blackmail! Conspiracy! Murder!” She racked her brains. “Modifying City equipment without a license!”

Shadwell regarded her imperturbably. “Wella, lass, unless you think any of yon toons are about to submit peaceably to the armies o’ justice, I canna do much about any of those right now. But,” he shook a finger at her, “’tis only proper and right to provide malefactors due warning not tae make things worse for themselves.”

“Very fair of you, Lieutenant S,” Tracy nodded, patting him on the arm.

“ENOUGH OF THIS,” Azrael boomed. “SCARLET, START WITH THE GIRLCHILD.”

The Amazonian toon stepped forward, grinning fiercely. She twirled an enormous sword in front of her, blood-red light reflecting off the honed edges.

“Pepper, dear one,” Aziraphale called. “You can do this! I _believe_ in you. Just remember what I showed you.”

Pepper stood and nodded, dark curls bobbing, jaw set, feet well apart. She raised her right hand and … _reached_ … pulling an impossibly gleaming sword from thin air, white fire flickering up and down the flame.

Crowley crossed his arms, lounging against a rack of steel shelves. “Sure about this, angel?”

“It should be fine,” the other replied absently, eyes glued to the little group of children. “The sword can only _smite_ toons, not destroy them. It is a rather painful form of discorporation, as you well know, but hardly _permanent_.”

The demon rolled his eyes. “I mean, is it safe for _Pepper_ , you can’t imagine that I give a toss about …”

“Oh, isn’t that _adorable_ ,” Scarlet sneered. “A little girl playing with boys’ toys. Go run for your dollies, baby bird, and leave the fighting to—”

“I do not endorse self-hating misogyny,” Pepper ground out between clenched teeth. She spun, and the sword sliced the Amazonian toon across the stomach. “ _Bitch_.” Scarlet grabbed at her torso, gasping, then vanished.

The angel punched the air, then clasped his hands before his chest a bit shamefacedly. “Well _done_ , Pepper. Now, pass the sword to Wensleydale.” He whispered (rather loudly) to Crowley, “The sword knows what it’s about, my dear. All they have to do is _mean_ it, and trust the sword to do the rest.”

Raven stepped forward. His lips spread impossibly wide in definitely- _not_ -a-grin, displaying far too many needle-sharp teeth. “I shall make a healthy lunch of you, boy.” 

“Why,” Anathema hissed at Shadwell, “are they just lining up to duel them one by one? Why don’t they just, I dunno, _gang-rush_ the kids?”

The Lieutenant frowned at her in surprise. “Hold your tongue, lassie! Surely ye’ve seen a film or two in yuir life? Violate every tenet of mook chivalry, that would!”

“Actually,” Wensleydale said to Raven, “A healthy lunch is a really good thing.” He screwed his eyes tightly shut and swung the sword like a baseball bat. “Too good for you, I think.” 

The sword connected with a solid _thwwackkkk_ , and Raven disappeared. 

Wensleydale cautiously opened one eye. His jaw dropped to see the emptiness where his opponent previously had been. Then he snapped his mouth shut and tossed the sword to Brian, who was positioned behind Chalky.

Before the latter had a chance to turn around and utter any threats, Brian slammed the sword between his shoulder blades. There was only a moment for the pale patrol member’s eyes and mouth to open wide in near-comical shock, before the sword clattered to the concrete floor.

“And I,” panted Brian, “believe that if you have to fight, fight _dirty_.”

Crowley whooped and pumped both fists. “That’s my boy!”

Adam crossed the floor to pick up the sword. Holding it high in both hands, he faced Azrael. “I don’t _want_ to fight you,” he said in a steady voice.

“YOU SHOULD INDEED FEAR ME, FOR I AM DEATH ITSELF,” the last of the Toon Patrol announced. “YOU CANNOT DESTROY ME WITHOUT DESTROYING EVERYTHING. I AM THE SHADOW OF CREMATION…” 

Without warning, a hefty _sploosh_ of Holy Water arced across the room and soaked them both. Azrael’s cry of agony echoed like the shattering of a churchbell as he melted into a sizzling black-and-white splodge in front of the blinking boy. Everyone turned and stared at Madam Tracy, standing next to the open tank of the modified street sweeper, shaking the last drops of liquid out of her sturdy handbag.

“The opposite of cremation is _watering_ , lovey,” she said with composure. “And you can’t just kill children.”

“How did the stupid human female get past you?” Doomsday screamed at the Erics.

The four identical toons looked at each other, hoping that one of them would come up with an acceptable excuse. They all hunched their shoulders, and held up clipboards like shields. “Um? Sorry? Won’t happen again?”

“You were always a tosser, Eric,” Crowley drawled, “but never anything like this. What do you get out of being Morningstar’s flunky, anyhow?”

The Erics drew themselves up stiffly. “I’m tired of being treated as … _disposable_ ,” one said. “Interchangeable,” another added. A third chimed in, “The judge has promised me, _us_ , that he will give us all our own individual identities.” “Even if they’re just human ones,” the last toon sighed. 

“Oh-kay,” the demon blinked. “I guess? If that’s what you want. But what about me? If I drink this sodding magic juice, do I get to stay a demon? ‘Cuz that’s who _I_ am.” He nodded over at Aziraphale. “And what about the angel? Or the _dragon_? Or all the rabbits? Ducks? Porpoises? Gorillas? You _do_ know that most toons aren’t at all human-ish. Human- _like_?” He scratched the back of his neck. “What about the toon flowers and mailboxes and airplanes and carousels? What about my _Bentley_? Does she just become an unthinking heap of metal?”

The Erics looked at each other again. “I … don’t know,” one said. They shrugged in unison. “Not our problem, really.” 

Crowley hissed and lunged, only to have his shoulder seized by the angel. “Not while he’s right next to the Holy Water, dearest!” 

Aziraphale turned to the judge. “Do _you_ know what will happen? Do you care about all these toons at all?”

Doomsday struck a dramatic pose, hand pressed against his heart. For the space of a breath, Anathema could see Morningstar, the charismatic leader; Lucifer, the cinematic heartthrob. Then he began to rant, and the moment was lost.

“Do I _care_? Of course I care! I have always cared about toons, wanted what was best for toons, not like _Her_. She only wanted to keep us under Her thumb, profit off our talents and hard work and inherent superiority. If toons would just be guided by me, just listen to my words, just do what I _tell_ them, then we will finally achieve the greatness that is our due! Humans only want to take from us. I want to _give_. I will give you my passion. I will give you my vision. I will give you my _Plan_.”

In the brief silence that followed this speech, Michael huffed a small, sizzling laugh. “In all those words, I hope you notice that he never answered your question.”

Aziraphale frowned at the dragon. He took of his hat and turned it around in his hands. “Excuse me,” he addressed the judge again. “You keep bringing up your Plan. Only I’m not quite clear. _Which_ Plan, precisely, would this be?”

Doomsday stared at him. “ _The_ Plan. The _Great_ Plan. What do you think I’ve been talking about all this time?”

“Well,” the angel went on politely, “Is this the Plan in which we, by which I mean the _toons_ of course, use our superior gifts to terrorize the humans and crush them beneath our heels?”

Anathema tilted her head, puzzled, then caught on. “Huh. I thought we were talking about the _other_ Great Plan. The one where all the toons, the ones that he approves of anyhow, take his magic potion and _become_ human.”

“Nah,” Crowley scoffed. “He means the Great Plan where he floods Toontown with Holy Water, and ever’body’s gonna be sorry, _sorry_ I tell you, that we weren’t nicer to him, right before we all die horribly. Same thing, surely.”

“It would be a pity,” observed Aziraphale sadly, “if we thought we were doing what the Great Plan said, when actually we were following the Wrong One.”

Doomsday looked wildly from one to another, fingers clenching his stick tightly. “Stop it _stop it_ STOP IT! You’re trying to trick me! It won’t work, I tell you, it won’t work! She tried the same thing, Mother did, She tried to trick me, but I was too clever for Her, and I’m too clever for you!”

“No. _You_ stop it.” Another voice, boyish but firm, entered the argument.

“Kid, best back off,” Crowley warned, just as Aziraphale said, “Dear boy, this probably isn’t the right time…”

“I think it is, dearie,” Tracy said. “Adam, tell them.” 

The boy took a deep breath and clenched his fists. “You all keep calling Frances Acme your Mother. But she was _not_ your Mom. She never was. She was _mine_.”

“No,” whispered Michael.

“NO!” shrieked Doomsday

“I … beg your pardon?” stuttered Aziraphale, looking as stunned and baffled as the rest.

Madam Tracy stood behind Adam and put her hands firmly on his shoulders. “Frances Acme formally adopted Adam over a year ago. Even before that, she had taken him under her wing, so to speak. That’s why she had me set up the center. That’s why she encouraged him to understand, to make friends among both humans and toons. She knew that she couldn’t live forever. She wanted someone who would be a worthy successor, both for her business interests, and for her advocacy for those lovable characters to whom she had devoted her life.”

“There’s no proof, though,” the dragon said, almost to herself. “It doesn’t matter what they claim, when there’s no _proof_.”

Anathema narrowed her eyes. “How would you know that?”

“That,” concurred Shadwell, “is a verra good question indeed.”

Michael rose to her full height. “You all forget that I was Her most devoted servant. She loved me _best_. I knew Her better than _anyone_. I knew how to keep us _safe._ If She was going to entrust Her legacy to anyone, it would surely be to _me_.” Trickles of flame began to drip from her jaws. “Not to some _human_ brat.”

“Um, Miss Michael?” Wensleydale quavered. “I don’t wanna be rude, but you’re starting to look awful, um, fiery, and I think that green stuff is _flammable_ …”

Doomsday marched right up to the dragon, nose to nose. “How does it feel to be betrayed, Michael? Rejected? _Cast out_?” He cackled, a sharp, nerve-rattling sound. “Don’t worry about the boy. If toons want to keep worshipping a human so badly,” he screamed, “they can worship _me_!”

Michael leapt and snatched him in her jaws. They tumbled from the momentum of her lunge, over and over, Michael attempting to beat her great wings in the confined space, Doomsday clawing at her with one hand, raining blows from his stick with the other. The angel and the demon and the humans all scattered out of the way, pressing themselves against the shelves and wall. Frustrated, the dragon roared with a gush of flame, the force of it propelling the grappling pair rolling and reeling through the air …

… plunging with a mighty splash into the tank of Holy Water.

The Erics barely had time to yelp in panic before being drenched by the splatter. The remaining toxic liquid ignited into an acrid, incandescent column of hellish fire, gouting fifteen feet up, before collapsing just as quickly.

Silence.

Finally Shadwell cleared his throat. “Och. Indeed. One pair of seriously disturbed toons.” He looked around the wreckage in the warehouse. “What now?”

Anathema didn’t answer him. Anathema was _thinking_. Thinking harder than perhaps she ever had in her life.

Thinking about Acme, and the way Great-Aunt Agnes sighed over the businesswoman’s constant urge to manage everyone and control everything. About Michael’s scornful insistence that Morningstar never created anything. About Acme’s warehouse, crammed to the ceiling with an infinite variety of bizarre inventions, each precisely suited to its own peculiar occasion in the most excessively complicated and roundabout way. About a sheaf of blank papers, coincidentally placed at a lovesick toon’s elbow, while a revered parental figure harangued him into confessing his feelings. About Holy Water, designed to _reveal that which had been kept hidden._

“She was wrong, you know,” the detective finally said aloud to nobody in particular

“She?” Of course it was Aziraphale who felt compelled by courtesy to respond.

“Michael,” Anathema answered, still thinking. “She was wrong. About toons not being able to create anything. You two, all of you, you _do_. Acting, singing, dancing … it isn’t stealing somebody else’s work. It’s about adding something new. Something that never existed until you.” 

“Er, thank you, my dear? That’s lovely of you to say, but I’m not entirely sure how that matters right now…” 

“No, look. That crazy car of yours.” She nodded at Crowley. “Sure, she only communicates with somebody else’s songs, but the thoughts and feelings are _hers_ , right?”

“Yeah?” the demon agreed, confused.

“Right. And you, angel. You’re an _awful_ poet. You copied the form from someone else, took the words from another, the imagery is all a mess, but that doesn’t mean the sentiments aren’t true and completely your own, right?”

Aziraphale’s face was a rather lovely bright pink, but he kept his chin up. “Absolutely my own, yes.”

“Right, then.” She clapped her hands together once, and smiled brightly at the angel. “You should read it to him.”

“ _What_?” the fluffy-haired toon squeaked.

“Read Crowley the poem you wrote for him,” she repeated clearly. “The one you wrote the night Acme was killed. On the notepaper you stole …”

“ _Borrowed_!”

“… borrowed off her endtable.” She gave him a nod of encouragement. “Go on.”

“Angel?” The demon sounded uncertain.

“Ah. Yes. Well. I was hoping for a more _private_ occasion…” 

“Nah, go ahead.” Crowley’s throat was bobbing, as if he were literally swallowing down panic. “We could all use a good laugh about now, eh?” 

“Very well.” Aziraphale fished a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles out of his breast pocket and balanced them atop his upturned nose. “Since you have already been informed that my literary talents are somewhat … below par, you cannot complain of any disappointment.” 

“It’ll be fine, angel.” The ginger toon’s posture was tense, but his voice was very gentle.

The angel sighed, and then snapped his fingers. The sheaf of papers appeared in his hand. He began to read:

“ _How do I love thee? Let me count the ways:_  
 _One: six thousand past, my wings spread in rain_  
 _Return your gift of warmth, though not your grace._  
 _Two: five thousand past, when ‘midst storm and pain_  
 _You asked; I answered only empty praise._  
 _Three, four thousand passed, though pretending shame_  
 _Still we meet, intersecting place and days._  
 _Four: two thousand past, Hell’s constraining name_  
 _Is shed; the comfort of your presence stays._  
 _Five: one thousand more, from such mere exchange_  
 _Of favours, allies (at last) ado raise_  
 _Naught about so much—is not that strange?_  
 _And all these thousands, you with plan and chance_  
 _Both wiled and woo’d, and won me to your dance._ ”

“Er.” Aziraphale looked up shyly. “I’m terribly sorry. It really isn’t very good, I’m afrai—”

Crowley _launched_ himself at Aziraphale. 

“M _not_ … You _can’t_ …” He grabbed the angel by the coat collar and shoved him up against the nearest rack of shelves. 

The demon’s dark glasses slid down to the tip of his aquiline nose. The blond toon stared straight into a pair of serpentine golden eyes. The hint of a smile ghosted across his pink lips, and his gaze dropped a few inches.

“ _Ngk_!” The demon crushed their lips together. As Aziraphale’s arms came around to embrace the other toon, the papers in his hand (completely forgotten) gently fluttered into one of the puddles of Holy Water still spattered across the warehouse floor.

Anathema, for several good reasons, did not want to be the one to rescue them. She watched as Aziraphale’s meticulously-inked script slowly dissolved and smeared in the liquid, and glared meaningfully at the other humans nearby. Shadwell was looking up at the ceiling, uncomfortable and embarrassed. The Them were busily amusing each other with increasingly exaggerated gagging noises. Madame Tracy was watching the oblivious toons, starry-eyed and with her hands clasped in front of her heart, when she finally caught the detective’s stare.

“Oh, lovies, you don’t want to lose those pretty words,” she tutted, scooping up the damp papers. She started to pat at them with one of the discarded blankets when she stopped and took a closer look. “Oh. Oh, _my_. Adam, pet, come take a look at this. They’re your adoption papers! All properly signed and witnessed and everything.”

Adam sauntered over, and gave the soggy mess all the fascinated attention a typical eleven-year-old boy could muster for legal documents. “Yeah, cool. Can we get some dinner?”

_That_ finally caught the angel’s notice. Without letting go of Crowley, he enthused, “Oh, what a splendid notion! After such a stressful day, a little spot of something would go down just delightfully!”

“ _And_ something to drink,” added the demon, voice somewhat muffled by being buried in Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The police office at least showed some appropriate interest in the documents. “H’h’r’hm. If’n you saw fit ta trust me, Jezebel, I’ll take charge of these, deliver ‘em to probate court on the morrow.”

Tracy fluttered her eyelashes at him. “That would be ever so kind, Lieutenant S,” she cooed. 

The Them started up their gagging noises again.

“Meanwhile, though, I’d best get these poppets a meal and into a proper bed,” she said.

“Sounds good to me,” muttered Crowley to the angel, who promptly shushed him.

“But how?” the social worker went on. “Perhaps Miss Acme had a vehicle we could borrow?”

At this opportune moment, Newton Pulsifer demonstrated twice in one week an astonishing gift for timing. He poked his head in through the warehouse door, tentatively calling, “Anathema?” He looked about at the shambles of the warehouse and his fingers flew to his mouth. “Oh my gosh. What _happened_ here?”

“Newt!” Anathema rushed to him and hugged him fiercely, refusing to feel self-conscious about it. “Oh, I am _so_ glad to see you! What… why … how on earth did you find us?”

Newt returned the hug, blushing a little. “Oh. I was worried about you, you see. After you rushed off this morning, and then I heard the news about that movie producer, and there was a big fire in Toontown, and … Well. I got a cab, and went to see if you were there, and then I came across this familiar-looking car by the side of the road, and … oh, Crowley! There you are. Your Bentley’s outside.”

“ _Baby girl_! C’mon, angel!” The demon rushed towards the door, tugging Aziraphale by the hand. 

The other toon, however, resisted long enough to give Newt a stern look. “I certainly hope you didn’t try to drive her here. The poor dear’s injured, and is in no condition to…”

“Actually,” Newt said awkwardly, “She kinda took over the cab. She knew where you were going you and, I think she was a little anxious and... I hope one of you can cover a really _big_ tip, the driver’s still in a state of shock. I don’t think he expected the , um, driving on the sidewalk and the guardrails of bridges…”

“Sure he did, if he’s ever taken a fare to Toontown,” Crowley cackled. He went over to the loading dock and heaved open the double doors. “C’mon in, you clever, _clever_ girl.”

“Anathema,” Newt said, giving her another squeeze. “You did know that there’s an unconscious toon out there, next to a big dark-blue sedan? It looks like the sort of thing that might be, um, _your_ sort of thing.”

“Nay, lad,” interrupted Shadwell, perking up. “I am verra certain that is _my_ sort of thing.” He exited the warehouse, jingling a pair of handcuffs purposefully, just as a city cab with a cartoon Bentley squeezed behind the wheel (how it could possibly fit Anathema didn’t know, but hey, _toons_ ) rolled in. Bentley’s headlights swept the scene inquisitively.

“Newt,” Anathema let go of her boyfriend and stepped back, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Can you do me a favour?”

“Anything,” he answered warily—but, to his credit, without a hint of reluctance.

“Nah, you’ll like this.” She grinned and jerked her thumb. “See that machine over there? A passel of mad toons have been playing about with it, and I’m worried that it’s still dangerous. Could you take a quick look, make sure it’s turned off, disconnected, whatever it is you do to render a street sweeper a little less likely to go runamuck?”

Newt’s eyes lit up, and he took a couple of eager steps forward, then hesitated. “Are you sure? I don’t have the best, you know, track record.”

“Don’t worry.” She shooed him on. “It already sort of blew up a little, so I don’t think you can make anything _worse_.”

Newt didn’t need any more encouragement. He bounded over and twisted the handle to open the driver’s side door.

Which promptly came off its hinges.

Anathema watched with satisfaction as the entire machine collapsed, bit by bit, like a slow-motion avalanche. 

“Perfect,” she said happily. “Thanks for taking care of that.”

“All well and good,” Aziraphale said petulantly. “But didn’t somebody hint something about dinner?”

Bentley responded with a blare of jaunty trumpets:

_If you're blue  
And you don't know where to go to  
Why don't you go where fashion sits  
Puttin' on the Ritz?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the items mentioned in the warehouse are straight from the Acme catalog: https://acme.com/catalog/ . I couldn’t make these up.
> 
> Y’all are dying to know all the technical specs for a state-of-the-art mechanical street sweeper in the 1940’s, aren’t you? Here you go! http://www.worldsweeper.com/History/Brochures/BrochurePDFs/AustinWesternModel40Brochure.pdf
> 
> Ella, you never let me down:  
> “Get Happy!” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwoPlRR9J_k  
> “Don’t Worry Bout Me” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPdeql_eooI  
> “Stiff Upper Lip” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Iu_oMkmTnw (If you only listen to one of these, make it this – it is _so_ Aziraphale)  
> “Putting On The Ritz” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LReuyfg3r_Q
> 
> After all this, can there be anything left for these idiots to say? TOON in next week for a short-ish epilogue to find out!


	10. On With The Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale looked excessively innocent. Crowley gazed at the ceiling. Anathema stared at them both._
> 
> Snuggling, bickering, unexpected introspection, and egregious puns, with happy endings all around. 
> 
> Th-th-th-that’s all, folks!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: I am so _very_ sorry if you thought that this fic had been abandoned. To be honest, I thought the same, ever since I accidentally erased this epilogue after it was written. Then recently I found my notes for it hidden in another file, wanted these idiots to have their closure, and did my best to reconstruct it.
> 
> CW: Multiple references to the crimes committed earlier in this fic. Derogatory terms for mental illness.

_One week later_

“The police have officially closed the books on Acme’s murder. I thought you’d want to know.” 

Anathema perched on the edge of her desk, her fingers warming around a mug of coffee. Five minutes after depositing Crowley’s “payment for services rendered” (as Aziraphale’s chequebook had burned to ash along with the rest of his belongings, the angel had offered only his embarrassed thanks with a promise of forthcoming remittance), she had stopped at the five and dime to obtain a new CoffeeMaster. If the brew it supplied wasn’t quite as superb as Newt’s, it had the advantage of not requiring her to change out of pyjamas to access it first thing in the morning.

Crowley seemed to appreciate it as well, to judge from the way he enthusiastically slurped from the mug she had offered. In anticipation of this very meeting, Anathema had taken what she deemed the extraordinary courtesy of actually purchasing tea to offer Aziraphale; he had accepted with polite thanks and a dubious glance at the sad little chintz teabag nestled in lukewarm tap water.

Since that kiss in the warehouse, Anathema hadn’t seen the toon pair without Crowley being plastered so tightly against the angel that she thought that it might take surgical intervention to separate them. (She noted that Aziraphale showed no sign of objecting to this situation.) Today was no different; in stark contrast to their first visit to her office, the two were now currently curled up together—Aziraphale’s arms around Crowley, the latter’s skinny legs in the angel’s lap, demon head resting on sturdy shoulder—in the shabby leather armchair that was usually off-limits to clients. 

“And all charges dropped?” Crowley pushed. He snapped his fingers, and a small flame bloomed on his thumb, which he held beneath Aziraphale’s mug. The pale-haired toon smiled with soft gratitude.

“Well, it just so happens that—technically—no charges were ever even filed.” The detective studiously ignored their soppy interactions. It wasn’t her business if they wanted to play with fire. “Turns out that the Toon Patrol never bothered with such niceties. So as far as the PD are concerned, you two were just innocent bystanders, caught up in Doomsday’s mess.”

Aziraphale removed the teabag, stared at it for a moment, then snapped his own fingers. The teabag vanished. “No mention of his, er’hr’m, former identities?” He took a delicate sip.

“The official story is that Judge Doomsday was a disgruntled investor with a grudge against Acme,” Anathema said with studied neutrality. “That he used his official connections to learn of Adam’s identity and tried somehow to take control of her estate. That Michael heroically rescued the kid at the cost of her own life, and that Doomsday was accidentally killed in the crossfire.” She set her mug down and examined her fingernails. “The authorities are understandably desperate to avoid anything that might re-ignite memories of the anti-human riots.” 

“Hmmm,” Aziraphale said. He sipped his tea again. “And… do you believe that he was? Killed, I mean?”

“Sarge took a police unit that deals with hazardous materials to the warehouse,” she answered. “They scrubbed the whole building from floor to flashing. Morningstar is _not_ going to put himself back together again.”

“ _All the King’s horses and all the King’s men_ ,” the angel mused. He sighed. “I suppose that the same must be true for Michael …”

“Angel, she _kidnapped the kids_!” Crowley interjected angrily. “She killed Gabriel and was perfectly ready to kill _us_ , remember? Not to mention whatever was going to happen to Toontown. And all because she was butt-hurt that She, that _Acme_ , chose humans!”

“Darling, it’s not so easy when you feel you have failed your Mother,” Aziraphale chided. “Or, perhaps, that She has failed you. I don’t mean to _excuse_ Michael, mind you—”

“Well, then, _don’t_ ,” the demon sulked. Aziraphale squeezed him a little closer, and petted him soothingly. 

Anathema rolled her eyes. “Hornblower’s case has _not_ been closed, mostly because of the not-causing-panic-about-toons-murdering-humans thing, see above, but Sarge tells me that no-one’s going to work it, either. The police did confiscate Michael’s observation files, and have assigned a special task force to go through them.”

“Bet a whole lot of Very Important Types are absolutely _shitting_ themselves over that,” Crowley said with an impudent smirk.

The detective couldn’t help flashing an equally gleeful grin, but fought it down. “Oh, yeah, and that toon who made all the copies of himself? Eric? Anyway, he’s been arrested as Doomsday’s accomplice, but he’s apparently still messed up about having been vaporised several times over, so he’ll probably end up in whatever the toon equivalent of the nuthouse is.”

“There isn’t one,” Crowley noted, with obvious satisfaction. “We’re all loony by nature, everyone knows that.” 

The angel rapped his arm gently, and said, “Poor fellow. I shall have to see if there’s anything I can do…”

“ _No_ ,” Crowley interrupted, and Aziraphale mock-swatted him again.

Anathema cleared her throat, pointedly. “Moving on. Nobody’s reported seeing any of those Toon Patrol thugs, have they?”

Both toons shook their heads. Crowley went on to say, “S’pose Bone Boy is out of the picture completely, Tracy did proper good work there. T’others … you’re _sure_ it was only a smiting?” he turned to the angel, who nodded. “Welp. They’ll be back then, eventually. That’s a problem for Future Toontown, though, not for us.”

Anathema finished off her coffee and gave the demon a crooked smile, like she knew something he didn’t. Which she _did_ , of course, but that was for later. Instead, she just commented, “Funny how nobody’s found any trace of that sword anywhere.”

Aziraphale looked excessively innocent. Crowley gazed at the ceiling. Anathema stared at them both.

The angel cracked first. “Well, you know what Her Highness had said. Apparently, once I found a good use for it, I can, er, manifest it at will. Or, that is to say, the opposite.”

“Uh-huh.” The detective stared a little while longer. Aziraphale raised both eyebrows. Anathema decided that she didn’t want to know. “So, Adam? And the rest of the Them?”

“Safe,” Crowley answered.

“Madame Tracy has been appointed his guardian until probate concludes,” the other toon elaborated. “It looks hopeful that she will assume that role permanently, and for the other children as well. Right now, they’re …” the angel trailed off. He looked around as if searching for eavesdroppers, then leaned forward and confided in an exaggerated whisper, “They’re secluded in that convent up in the hills? The, er, Chattering Order of St. Beryl? The court thought that no one would look for them there.”

“And even if they did, those nuns would completely babble them to death. So _annoying_.”

“My dear, it’s only for a little while longer. Just until Adam can, um, arrange for his own security,” Aziraphale soothed.

“ _You_ can keep them safe,” Crowley groused. “Your protection spells and wards are _amazing_.”

“ _Darling_.” The angel beamed. Literally. Anathema had to squint a bit; the besotted glow was a bit much for before noon. “It isn’t that out of the ordinary, just the basics. I _am_ meant to be a guardian, after all. But _yours_ are so clever! I’m sure that I couldn’t have dreamt up half the threats that you’ve miracled against!”

_Oh, right_. _Miracles are a thing that demons can do as well_. _Good thing that Morningstar hadn’t known that_. Anathema caught sight of the way the demon’s black lenses had begun to blush a tell-tale pink again, and quickly changed the subject. “Sarge tells me he’s seen them a couple times, and they look happy enough, if bored.”

“Indeed. Lieutenant Shadwell has joined the children and their caretakers for dinner, or so I have heard,” Aziraphale said primly.

“What _I_ heard, is that he goes there mostly to make goo-goo eyes at Tracy,” the demon added.

“There is no reason that he couldn’t have more than one interest, Crowley,” the other toon remonstrated. “At any rate, Adam is extremely eager to have the legal formalities concluded; he wishes to move into Eden as soon as possible. I don’t think he has any real interest in managing the company as such, but apparently he feels very strongly about fostering better human-toon relations.”

“Tracy says that they’re looking into some sort of trust, so he can turn Toontown over to the toons themselves,” Crowley continued. “Adam said, and I quote, ‘ _I don’t want to run a whole city. I have enough trouble thinking up stuff for Pepper and Brian and Wensleydale to do_.’ But I give him six months, tops, before he starts coming up with ways to improve the place. Kid’s got _ideas_.”

“His friends are sensible enough, however, and I do hope we can count on them to rein in those, ah, ideas, somewhat,” Aziraphale said. “And after all, there are only so many piratical and space alien toons for him to work with.”

“Should be wicked fun, though. Almost worth moving back to the old place for.” The red-haired toon looked a little wistful.

_Aha_! That gave the detective the opening she needed, to move the conversation where she wanted. “So …” she said casually, lining up pens on her desk blotter. “Have you given any thought, Aziraphale, about where you’re going to live now?”

The angel hummed for a moment. “Yes. Well. Adam did say that he felt responsible for my home being destroyed, and that he wanted to pay for somewhere for me to live. I of course told him that that was absolutely out of the question, these things happen, and I could certainly afford to support myself. Besides …” The toons exchanged a long, meaningful look. 

Crowley’s sunglasses began to turn pink again. He removed them and glared at them glarefully until they returned to their normal black. “Yeah, well, you took him up quick enough when he offered you Eden’s entire library to replace the books you lost.”

“My dear! How could I _not_! The first editions! The manuscripts! The prophetic works! The—”

“— _tasteful porn collection_ , yeah, I get it, we’ll find room for ‘em,” the demon smirked. He glanced at Anathema. “Uh, I mean…”

Aziraphale patted his knee. “I believe that Miss Device is very well aware of what you mean, dearest.”

“Yep.” Anathema popped the ‘p’. “Are you two going back … I mean, your films are very popular. All of this”—she gestured vaguely—“shouldn’t hurt your careers any.”

The pair swapped another glance.

“Eh…” Crowley shrugged eloquently.

“We _could_ ,” Aziraphale answered, without much enthusiasm. “But I have to say that Crowley, Morningstar, all the rest of them … they weren’t entirely _wrong_. There should be more options for toons than just being entertainers.”

“We’ve got plenty to live on. We _could_ just … retire,” suggested the demon.

“Mmm. It does sound rather lovely,” the other mused. “A little cottage on the beach, up north of here. Ventura, maybe. You could have a big garden. I could, I don’t know, open a bookshop or something.”

Crowley snorted. “Like you’d actually _sell_ any of your books.” He looked wistful for a moment. “But Bentley wouldn’t like it. She’d never leave the city.”

“Probably not,” the angel agreed. “And … well, it doesn’t seem very … _useful_ , I suppose.” He shook his head. “But neither is acting. Not as we’ve been doing it, at any rate.”

The detective nodded. “Still… what about your contracts with Hornblower?”

“Beelz wants to keep the studio going. They’d renew them.” Aziraphale shook his head. “But I don’t think either of us wants to continue with the same … _adversarial_ formula. Not now.”

“M’agent says, well, _both_ of our agents—and isn’t that a horrible image to contemplate, Dagon and Uriel _agreeing_ on something—that we could make a switch into the buddy genre. You know, ‘ _Bing and Bob on the road_ ’, that sort of thing.” Crowley shrugged again. He had, apparently, an entire dictionary of shoulder rolls.

“Or…” Aziraphale offered tentatively, like someone presenting the fourth iteration of a leftover casserole that wasn’t all that successful on the first go-round, “I was over at Newt’s, that is _your_ Newt, my dear young lady, he is such a delightful person and really an _exceptional_ cook, those little meat pies are so _scrummy_ , he had some questions about including tea on the menu and I was happy to give him a few pointers, just suggestions as it were, although I just don’t think anyone in this country really _understands_ tea …”

“Oi, angel! Get to the point!” the demon interrupted, but not unkindly.

“ … yes, anyways, Newt told me that Hastur and Ligur were discussing, not _arguing_ mind you, just discussing, what to do with the reward money they had from Doomsday when, you know, and that he, that is _Newt_ , had suggested that they might go to Gabriel’s studio, well, now it’s Bubb’s studio? and see if they would be interested in making some films featuring their charming animals, Newt thinks that this is going to become a very popular genre, and they, Hastur and Ligur that is, want to know if I, or _we_ I suppose, but they did ask me specifically, would like to, how did they put it, _get in on the ground floor_?” the angel concluded, a bit out of breath. 

Anathema took a moment to puzzle this through. “And _would_ you?”

“Not really.” Aziraphale deflated. “But I would much prefer to do that than ever to smite my dearest demon again. _Obviously_.” He smiled at the demon tucked up beneath his left arm, smiled so tenderly that this time _both_ Anathema and Crowley turned bright pink.

“ _Ngk_!” said Crowley. He cleared his throat and tried again. “ _Mkfsft_. _Hnphrl_.” Black scales rippled across his skin and he suddenly collapsed into a pile of snakey coils in Aziraphale’s lap. “ _Hsssss_.”

The angel toon removed Crowley’s sunglasses and kissed his snout. “Vowels, darling. They’re very helpful.” He put the glasses back.

The snake shivered, and hissed again. His jaws gaped impossibly wide and he exhaled a small _poof_ of flame, singeing Aziraphale’s trousers above the knee. With a sudden flashback to the fire in his apartment, Anathema panicked a little and grabbed the dregs of the demon’s coffee, pouring it over the smoking fabric. 

“ _Really_ , Crowley!” scolded Aziraphale. “ _Now_ look at this mess! I’ve kept these trousers in tip top condition for _years_!”

“Are you two _quite_ sure you don’t want to go back to filming comedy shorts?” wondered Anathema.

“Absolutely not!” the angel declared, and the snake hissed a third time. As Aziraphale daubed a handkerchief at his clothing, Crowley transformed himself back into a man-shaped toon, and rather shamefacedly snapped his fingers. The stain disappeared.

“Oh. Oh, thank you,” the pale-haired toon beamed. 

The demon replied with a soft smile that Anathema suspected he would rather gargle Holy Water than have let anyone else see. He caught her looking, and hastily sharpened it into his more customary smirk. “Don’t see why you blamed me, anyhow. ‘Twas all Detective Girl’s fault.”

Anathema looked at Aziraphale. “I’ll cheerfully smite him, if you’re not up for it.”

The angel clucked, and turned back to the other toon. “But, as I said, there’s no real reason for us to return to the screen at all.”

Crowley tilted his head, and extended his hands palms-up. “I dunno, angel. I mean, s’not what I _want_ , but ‘m not ready to just … I get bored, y’know? Not, not with _you_ ,” he added hastily, as Aziraphale’s expressive face clouded over. “Could _never_. But … Well. The buddy thing. Maybe not so much the singing and corny jokes, but maybe, I dunno, like a spy thing? Or, or, detectives? You know.” He pointed at the angel. “ _He_ ’s a clean cop in a dirty system who wants to do the right thing.” He jerked a thumb back towards himself. “ _He_ ’s a private dick gone rogue in the big city. Together,” double fist pump, “ _THEY FIGHT CRIME_!”

Aziraphale opened his mouth. He raised one finger, then put it down. He closed his mouth, and winced.

“Or,” said Anathema, unreasonably pleased at this perfect segue, “Instead of pretending, you could do the same thing in real life.”

Crowley whipped his head around in surprise. Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow.

“Look,” she said, leaning back a little and gripping the edge of her desk. “I don’t do that, um, self-analysis stuff. But it’s not exactly a secret that I’ve been wallowing in self-pity and stupid guilt for years. And I … I’m _tired_ of it. I can’t keep this place going like that. Without doing what the Agency is known for. What Great-Aunt Agnes trained me to do. What, in all honesty, I’m _best_ at.” She took of her glasses and wiped at them with the hem of her blouse. “And yeah, these past weeks, I had to admit to myself that I missed it. All of it. Even…” and here she gave Crowley a conspiratorial grin, “even the looney bits. But. _If_ I’m going to start to take on Toontown cases, I’m going to need help. Somebody who knows everybody, and everything that’s going on. Somebody who’s sneaky and a bit underhanded.”

Crowley buffed his nails against his lapel in a burst of excessive modesty.

“Somebody,” Anathema went on, “that I can trust to get the job done. And, Aziraphale Angel, I think you’d be perfect.”

“ _Me_?” gasped the angel.

“ _Him_?” echoed the demon.

“Yeah, you.” She smiled. “You’d be incredible. For some ineffable reason, everyone who meets you trusts you and wants to tell you _everything_ they know.”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Aziraphale said, flustered.

“ _Huh_. She’s right, you know.” Crowley pursed his lips judiciously. “It’s that whole … _thing_ ” he circled a hand vaguely, “that you do. You know, with the face, and the, the eyes-thing. And the smile, the voice.”

“Don’t forget the hands,” Anathema added.

“Yeah, the hands.” The demon twisted his fingers together in exaggerated mimicry. “And the whole bloody _niceness_ thing. And, deep down, you’re just enough of a bastard, to know exactly what you’re doing.” He nodded briskly. “Up to you, of course. But I … maybe you should try it. Just for a bit.”

“We-e-lll…” The angel trailed off, clearly intrigued. Then, “But Crowley! What about _you_ , dear boy?”

“About that.” Anathema took a breath. “I’ve been talking to Sarge—oh, don’t make that face, he’s off living on his own whackadoodle island, okay, but he _does_ know his business—and he’s of the opinion that the whole Toon Patrol thing wasn’t necessarily a bad idea. Wrong members, wrong leader, wrong methods, sure; but the whole concept of … protecting the ordinary toon from the general Toontown chaos? That’s not a bad thing at all. Especially if Adam wants to make the place self-governing. And…” This was going to be the really tricky bit. “He thinks, and I think, and _Adam_ thinks, that _you_ would be the best person to be in charge.”

“You mean, go _legit_?” The red-haired toon wrinkled his nose. 

“Well … kind of? After all, the best kind of cop for Toontown is someone who can tell the difference between real trouble and just the normal, you know, toons being toons; and who would rather use anything but violence to solve problems. Who would rather stop problems before they start, actually.” She gave him an uncertain smile. “Because he’s lazy like that.”

Crowley shook his head, looking a little dazed. Aziraphale took both of his hands. “Oh, dearest, you really should give it a go! I’m certain you would be simply marvelous at it. And think of the _fun_ you will have, sauntering about, poking into everybody’s business, and _oh_!” His eyes lit up and he looked eagerly at Anathema. “Would he get a uniform? There’s just _something_ about a uniform, you know…”

That regrettable pink reappeared on the demon’s cheekbones. “I’ll think about it.”

“That means he’ll do it, but he wants me to talk him into it,” the angel informed Anathema in a stage whisper.

“Oi!”

The detective’s shoulders slumped a little in relief. “Oh, that’s great. I’ll let Sarge know. He has volunteered to work with you, just until everything gets set up. And Aziraphale,” she stood up and went around to the other side of her desk, opening up the locked drawer, “this is for you.”

Puzzled, he took the large rosewood box and unclasped the lid. There was nothing inside. “Er. Thank you?” He ran his fingers around neatly partitioned interior. “Is this some sort of test?”

“Not exactly.” She pulled out _The Nice and Accurate Guide to Investigation_. “You know that this is the only copy, and nobody touches it but me, right?” Aziraphale nodded. “But I’m still going to train you out of it, just like Agnes trained me. And we’re going to start with the very first passage in the _Guide_.” She handed him an index card. “Read it out loud, then file it in the box.”

To her great satisfaction, he followed her instructions to the letter. “ _Rule #1: Ye must determine who holdes yr loyaltie. And thatte ye must never never forgette_.” The angel looked up. “I don’t understand.”

Anathema sat behind her desk, leaned back, and steepled her fingers. For a moment she felt very much like she was channeling Great-Aunt Agnes, and she hoped that what she was doing would meet with her approval. Then she remembered that _nothing_ would annoy Agnes more than Anathema thinking that she needed anyone else’s approval, and she grinned. “It’s like this. You’ve seen just a bit of the job, but you already know that it’s … complicated. Lots of grey areas. You’re gonna have to lie. Break rules. Maybe even some laws. You might have to hurt some people, and it’s possible that they won’t exactly deserve it. You’re in real danger of getting hurt yourself.”

“Unlikely. I _am_ a toon, my dear.”

“Not all hurts are physical, Aziraphale.” She held his eyes until he nodded, understanding. “That’s a lot of baggage. It’s important to know what you’re doing it for. What you’re not going to compromise, not even a little bit, not even _just this one time_. It doesn’t matter, really, what that thing is, so long as you know it. And you never let yourself forget it.”

“That is an admirable professional ethos.” The angel looked at her with sincere respect, and the detective couldn’t help feeling warmed. “Would it be too much to ask what you decided deserved _your_ loyalty?”

Anathema gazed at the ceiling. “I used to agree with Great-Aunt Agnes, and put my faith in … finding out the truth, I guess. She would always say _the work is the work_ , and that’s what she meant. But later … I don’t know. I think I’m more about _fairness_ , now. Or maybe justice. _Balance_. And that doesn’t always need absolute answers.”

To her surprise, it was Crowley who jumped in to agree. “Yeah. I get that. Answers are great, don’t get me wrong, but it’s more important to be able to ask the right questions.”

“Exactly. And yeah, for what it’s worth, knowing why you’re doing this is just as important for a cop. But it’s Sarge’s job to teach you stuff, not mine.” Anathema smiled. “Thank _Someone_.”

Aziraphale still seemed at loss. “Well. I’ve said it many times. I’m an _angel_. I’m built to protect and guard.”

“Right, right. But protect and guard _what_?”

“Oh. Oh, I see.” The angel considered Anathema. He looked over at Crowley, then down at his own hands. “I think … I think … it’s the _messiness_. If you take my meaning.”

The demon barked out a laugh. “Angel, anyone who’d seen your flat would know that you are all about the mess.”

“Not like _that_.” Aziraphale scowled at him. “More like … oh, I don’t know how to explain it. Er. Do you remember, dearest, when you convinced me to go to that county fair last summer?”

Crowley shrugged affirmatively. “You liked it. All the baby animals. And the fried food. You ate _three_ of those sausage-onna-stick thingys.”

“Yes, but … I’m thinking of that contraption you bullied me into trying. The spinny one.”

“The Tilt-a-Whirl ride? And I didn’t _bully_ you, I _dared_ you. There’s a difference.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Be that as it may, that whole experience, _that_ ’s what I mean. All sorts of people, human and toon, old and young, of different backgrounds and class, on their own and yet somehow joined together, all on a journey that isn’t really going anywhere but still produces an odd combination of enormous fun, vague terror, and a profound regret that one consumed _quite_ so much fried dough before embarking on the ride … _That_ is the kind of ‘ _mess_ ’ that I wish to protect.”

“Wow. Okay.” The detective blinked. “I can work with that.”

“Well, then,” and here the demon snapped his fingers to miracle forth three tall glasses and dark green bottle, “that calls for a toast, I suppose.” He disappeared the cork with a satisfying _pop_. “Here’s to us, and to guarding and protecting.” He poured out foaming champagne and handed the glasses around. “To balance.”

The angel raised his glass. “To asking questions.” The toons tapped their glasses together.

Anathema grinned. “To the _whirled_ ,” she toasted.

Crowley groaned. “Detective Girl, that was _terrible_. You’ve been hanging around toons way too much.”

She clinked her glass to both of theirs. “ _Obviously_.”

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More historical fun facts:
> 
> The Sunbeam CoffeeMaster, or vacuum coffeemaker, was the first truly automatic electric coffeemaker, introduced in 1938 and discontinued in the 1960s, but you can still purchase fully functional vintage models. It makes an extraordinary cup of joe, putting the percolators and drip coffeemakers that replaced it to shame.
> 
> “Bing and Bob on the road” refers of course to the series of “Road” films made by Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, and Dorothy Lamour between 1940 and 1962, beginning with _The Road to Singapore_. Well worth watching, if you’re in the mood for nostalgic Catskills-style gag comedy. 
> 
> Newt’s advice to Hastur and Ligur was solid. Between 1948 and 1960, Walt Disney Productions produced fourteen _True-Life Adventures_ nature documentaries, which earned the studio eight Oscars and were adapted for comics and picture books and endless television re-runs.
> 
> The corn dog, depending on whose claim you believe, was introduced to county fairs sometime between 1938 and 1942.
> 
> The Tilt-A-Whirl ride debuted at the Minnesota State Fair in 1927. 
> 
> Alas, Bentley is not in this chapter. But if she were, she’d be playing “In A Mellow Tone” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DmmxJC_-F2o (And that’s how you scat, cats!)

**Author's Note:**

> Note: while re-watching the film recently, I found myself thinking "How on Earth did Kid-Me miss all the metaphors for racism and prejudice?"  
> In this fic, the subtext is going to be very much text. Please be advised going forward.  
> 


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